


A Shadow of What You Used to Be

by ReclessAbandon



Category: Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)
Genre: Anakin has a sister, Darth Vader's Secret Apprentice, F/M, Force-Sensitive Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Requested by anon, Tumblr, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, fic request, secret apprentice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReclessAbandon/pseuds/ReclessAbandon
Summary: There is another! Years after young Anakin Skywalker departed Tatooine, his mother Shmi delivers a second child—this time, a daughter. Whilst the circumstance of the girl’s birth remains unexplained, Irele Skywalker has yet to choose the true path between those laid out for her.
Relationships: Cal Kestis/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 51





	1. PRELUDE

**Author's Note:**

> Another backlog fic request that I need to make up to because I've probably kept the Anon waiting for too long and I feel really bad. Now that my laptop is fixed and the outline is ready, I can go back to writing like normal.
> 
> Also, the Anon allowed me whether to use a Reader or OC, so I went with the latter! Hope you guys enjoy! :3

_**32 BBY** _

The harsh desert morning unravels its sun upon the towns of Tatooine. The woman’s eyes shot open upon being greeted by the silence. She had been too used to the routine of having her son, a boy of nine, always coming up to her bed and snuggling to her side  only to wake her up in an innocent whisper.

The cottage had gotten quieter since. Shmi  Skywalker sighed, waking with a heavy heart for months on end.  She has yet to practice herself in being accustomed to being alone in almost everything she does in and out of the house: cooking, eating, cleaning, working, and sleeping. The most difficult part of it all is trying not to think too much about her little boy: how he must be doing, if he’s making good friends with any children wherever he is, or if he’s not being too hard on himself.

_ Don’t worry too much, Shmi. _ She tells herself while folding clothes.

I t has been  four months since she watched her son join the man who promised to make the boy a Jedi.  But those four months felt like an eternity for a mother, all by her lonesome.

O n one evening, in the middle of cooking her supper, Shmi felt her stomach churning and the reflux was quickly climbing upwards from her stomach to her throat. She scrambled  from  turning off the heat  to rushing to the wash.  While allowing herself to retch, her free hand twisted the tap, letting the water run as the drain siphoned the bile.

Shmi’s eyes shifted wildly and paced her breathing. Battling her own conscience whether to think what she’s already thinking.

Is she with child?

She had no relations of any kind,  thus it only leaves her to only one conclusion: it is the same circumstance as her conception of Anakin, her son. She calmed her beating chest with the flat of her palm resting above her breast, then—almost reluctantly—her hand trailed downwards to her womb. It took moments before she could hear a heartbeat that isn’t hers, but she quickly welcomed it. In the back of her mind, she wondered if this one will turn out the same as its brother—strong with the Force, as the Jedi had examined once before; regardless, she assesses whether she’ll cover up the child’s origins with a story, but then Shmi cannot find it in her heart to lie about it, and so she deliberated that she’ll remain truthful to how she had her now second child.

T hough, she doubts that this one will be found by more Jedi.

As far as Shmi knows, not many Jedi will go to this desolate wasteland to find children to recruit or free slaves—the last Jedi she met, Qui Gon Jinn, said as much  before .

N evertheless, she took care of herself so that the bundle of life growing in her would come out healthy as well. Her owner, Watto, was surprised though quickly shifted back to his indifference. Out of understanding—something he rarely does—he had allowed her to continue working from home, as it had always been even when her son was still here, until the child was due.

Nine months, she carried it.

And come the final month, she was ready to deliver.

A band of female neighbors did her the kindness of assisting her with the birth, one of them was an elderly vendor woman who peddled by their home street.

Two younger woman supported Shmi, lending her their arms for her to grip on. The vendor woman paced her instruction of Shmi when to push. That night, the entire residential block was filled with her screams…

Until it was followed by the fresh wails of an infant.

The two assistants gasped, one of them could not fight the tear that rolled down their cheek when the elderly woman held the newborn. A smile stretched across her face, her thin lips pursed as her grin opened more at the sight of the baby gradually ceasing its cries.

“Shmi…!” the elder gasped. “It’s a girl!”

Shmi struggled to release her grip from one of the maids, gesturing to the elder to  hand over the baby. The second maid helped her sit up before letting her carry the newborn. The moment their skins touched, Shmi instantly fell in love—remembering the first time she gave birth.

The infant girl: a head full of hair, with strands as dark as a moonless night in the Dune Sea; round, hazel eyes that glinted like sunshine; and rich, soft, olive skin.

“She has your eyes!” gasped a maiden.

Shmi giggled. She is at a loss for words. More so when her daughter clasped its tiny hand around her forefinger and middle finger together.

The elderly woman asked if she can bathe the child and swaddle it; in the meantime, Shmi rested and the maidens cleaned her up as well. That night went back to its peace, but somehow it felt much more mellow—like a silent lullaby.

Cradling her newborn, Shmi gently rocked left and right—as if dancing—while humming to her new baby daughter. A daughter! Her heart leapt. There’s a smile that she can’t seem to erase, and she doesn’t plan to as long as she kept her eyes on her little daughter.

“Oh, what to name you, my pretty one?” she cooed.

She gave herself a minute or so to think, muttering words that ought to be names. The ones she must have preferred were said out louder than the rest.

“Irele…”

The name came to her naturally. She chanted the name a few times, and was confident that it was the suitable name for her daughter. The child cooed, her hand squirmed and gently tapped Shmi’s bosom.

“My little Irele…”

Shmi craned her neck so that her lips are closer to Irele’s forehead. Mother and child retreated to their quarters for the night.

Even for just one night, Shmi felt free.  At the birth of her daughter, Irele Skywalker.


	2. A Child Can Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am sorry for the huge delay. I don't wanna make my explanation long but to get to the point: I live in the Philippines and last Nov. 12, my hometown was flooded by Typhoon Vamco (or locally known as Typhoon Ulysses) and my neighborhood nearly sank. It was a horrible experience, and my second one to boot. That day, perhaps for a week there was no electricity at all--a total blackout. Luckily, I managed to save most of my things. We're already on the road to recovery, that's why I think I can write and post now. Thanks for understanding.

The garage was filled with the same perpetual noise. For a seven-year-old, this is no suitable place for a child—but this is the normal she grew up in.

“Hurry up with that chassis!” barked a male Twi’lek with orange skin in Huttese.

The girl answered, in the same dialect, “Can’t you see that this thing is twice my size, Pelug!?”

“You’re lucky you’re faster than those pit droids, otherwise, I would’ve put you in concessionaire duty!”

A pair of hazel eyes shot a piercing look at the humanoid, a scowl forming in her eyebrows.

The orange Twi’lek’s pair of lekku wagged along with his finger pointed at the girl, his threat didn’t scare her as much as he wanted to—though it’s common knowledge that concessionaire duty was the worst, one is essentially demoted if put there. But she thinks she’s proved herself highly unlikely of being in that position.

Not receiving help—not expecting to either—she hauled up the chassis on a crate while shooing the doddering pit droids. When the path was clear, the hatch had already been opened—thanks to those little ones—to screw in the part before the big race. The speakers crackled and echoed across the entire garage, reminding us that the participants have less than thirty minutes before the racers are required to bring their rides on the starting block.

“Irele,” Pelug called in Basic, but immediately went back to speaking Huttese. “You got tiny hands, hold this open for me while I close off the hydraulic seals.”

Irele obeyed. She had a few seconds of relaxing her fingers one seal after the other.

After the tech work, their contender—a male Togruta named Gelesh with uneven lekku—hopped onto his podracer. A few switches and clicks, the _Brazen_ _Bullet_ roared to life—lights flickered across the entire dashboard, the engines belched, and the turbines thrummed.

“Hey, if Sebulba fights dirty—”

“I’ll fight filthier!” he cuts Irele off laughing, but she let it pass. The exchange was somewhat tradition for both of them.

The speakers in the garage crackled again, startling many who are inside, and the croaky announcer prompted the racers to prepare at the starting block; in less than a second, a second translates everything to Huttese. The announcer was the two-headed sentient of species she still doesn’t know the name of.

Gelesh’s entourage—including Irele—strolled out of the garage and made for the exit. The Tatooine sunlight abruptly blazed its rays over their heads, luckily, they were wearing headgear. Gelesh was confident although the nervousness was somehow getting to him, the girl can sort of sense it—along with a few more emotions that she didn’t want to point out to make it worse for him.

“Hey, Gel?”

“Yeah, Irele?”

“Relax.”

That took a load off of his chest, his lips stretched to a friendly grin, he pulled himself together first and then his goggles next. To each racer, they followed the instructions as the two-headed sentient said so. All the technicians began scrambling back to their pit stop when the mufflers have fired up. Little Irele went further into their pit stop, crawling through spaces that only she can enter; she then scaled a spire with makeshift handholds she herself installed until she could reach a ledge on the spire that apparently supported one of the spectator boxes.

The seven-year-old was small enough to seat herself on such a narrow edge; from there, she has as good as a view of the spectators in the towers and stands. If the crowd was already rowdy before the racers lined up on the block, the noise got wilder and louder that perhaps one can hear it all the way to Mos Pelgo. Each podracer had their characteristic noise for each action: ignition, acceleration, compressor activation, and what have you—Irele can identify the _Brazen Bullet_ and its every sound with her eyes closed.

“Alright, racers, rev up those engines because we start in five…”

A collective of podracers engine noises rung and rumbled the circuit. Three seconds in, their ignition sent dust clouds flying over the heads of the poor people in the bottom row of the stands. The people in the bleachers joined the countdown, and so did Irele as she kept her eye on the single podracer whose body plates are forged with bronzium.

“ONE!!”

One by one, the vehicles zipped past—their noises abrupt like the firing of a blaster, the mufflers thunderous as they pulled the accelerators—some of the audience members had the hems of their clothes flying to the direction of the podracers, nonetheless arousing their secondhand adrenaline.

Irele’s little heart went with _Brazen Bullet_ speeding right in the lead, the bronzium finish of the vehicle were fleeting specks of light over her glossy, hazel eyes. She scaled the spire some more until she could sneak a peek on one of the watchers’ tablets to see who’s in the lead and dead last. For everytime Gelesh completed the lap, Irele could almost feel her heels floating, as if she was the one driving the pod and feeling the exact velocity, the thrill, the sheer focus—driving one was a dream, though her mother forbade her, begged her even not to try it, but said so with a softness that compels Irele to obey, despite her desires.

Everyone had their eyes on the rising star, Gelesh, who was also leaving Sebulba in the dust. Hot on his heels, the Dug desperately cranked every possible lever his hind legs could grab on—in the hopes of catching up to the Togruta. The Dug, unwilling to accept defeat after the destruction of his streak by the victory of that one human boy years ago.

That boy was Anakin Skywalker.

Irele had heard stories of him: how he defeated the Dug despite all odds, and snagged the top place in the race, and how he was an underdog in everyone’s eyes. She wondered if they might have been friends somehow, given their mutual penchant for podracing albeit preferring different aspects.

“This is it, people! This is the last lap of the circuit—Gelesh Odibra and Sebulba are practically neck-and-neck! Who will cross the finish line first!? They’re all so close now!! It’s Gelesh!! No, it’s Sebulba!!”

The sentient argues with its Huttese-speaking head, looping what the Basic-speaking head kept saying in a continuous effort in riling up the crowd. Irele was literally on the edge of the tier when the _Brazen Bullet_ and Sebulba’s podracer were within view. A twin-trail of sand, clouding the tail-ends of the podracers approach the starting line—with the third light blinking green, eager for the victor to zoom through it.

It was all such a blur. The crowd cheered, nonetheless, believing that their eyes didn’t deceive them and that they saw their contender stay ahead of the other by a hair. Not long after, a scuffle was developing when two differing spectators argued on whose champion went through the finish line first. Irele spotted it across from where she sat, but she didn’t watch the scuffle for long; she turned her attention to the announcer’s tower.

“Wow, did you see how close that was! Everything was such a blur I’m not even sure if I saw it right!”

The second head agreed, speaking in Huttese, in the same enthusiasm as the Basic-speaking one.

To finally calm the crowd, and settle it once and for all, the sentient clicks a pattern of buttons on their control panel to project a snapshot of the two racers at the finish line—determining who was closest to the line. Showing images from all angles, it’s clear that the _Brazen Bullet_ ’s nose was basically under the sensors of the light—thus triggering all three lights to indicate that a racer has completed the circuit.

“I don’t believe it! This is Gelesh’s third win in the streak—cementing his record just right above Sebulba’s!”

By the hum of a gong echoing across the circuit, a large portion of the crowd jumped and roared in a united cheer—ribbons and petals of sorts flew in congratulation, showering the youthful Togruta in his victory. He hopped out of his podracer, his entourage comes sprinting out of their pit stop with Irele at the tail just getting down from her perch.

“GELESH, YOU DID IT!” squealed the girl, sprinting and shouldering her way to his view.

A host hands over a trophy to Gelesh who then let Irele—perched on his broad shoulder—hold the other side of the trophy. People have gotten out of their seats to surround the defending champion. They chanted his name, the rest of the spectators showered him with flowers, petals, and ribbons.

Every victory was wonderful for Irele. Perhaps, it equaled to the exact same thrill as driving her own podrace. This went on for two more years, and in those next years, they enjoyed the sport—win or lose.

* * *

_**24 BBY** _

It seemed that the garage manager was feeling gracious today. The Rodian boss let Irele go home earlier than her normal shift, in which the girl celebrated with a grin whose ends pierced her plump cheeks, a squeaking cheer as she scrambles to put away her things, and a sprint that sent the dust floating behind her heels.

Irele didn’t head home right away, she went the other direction—towards the junkshop where her mother worked, employed by the blue, pungent Toydarian, Watto. The chimes rang as she burst through the door, startling the creature—who hoped it was a customer, but much to his chagrin, it was only the girl, and so he returns to his chair with a groan.

“Where’s Mom?”

“Over there,” Watto lazily pointed and croaked with his native accent running thick in his voice.

“Mommy?”

Shmi paused at the workbench to meet her daughter, “Irele? You’re out early.”

Irele threw herself into Shmi’s arms, embracing her as tight as her scrawny arms can, “Yeah, Selek let me out early today. Good thing he did!”

Her mother simply smiled, perhaps too overwhelmed by her daughter’s energy.

“You didn’t forget, did you?”

That somehow jolted Shmi enough for her realize that she had caught herself spacing out. She shook her head and mouthed the word “no,” she saw the concerned expression in Irele’s face and took her daughter by the shoulders.

“No, darling, I didn’t forget,” she pursed a sweet smile and tapped the tip of Irele’s nose with her forefinger. “How could I forget my promise to you?”

Irele’s eyes lit up, the sihght of it delighted her mother. Shmi then finished up whatever work she’s been busying herself with before getting off of work. Mother and child strolled out of the junkshop, Irele trottd off happily while keeping her hand clasped in Shmi’s—who was walking in her normal pace, with a few occasional tugs from the child because of her prancing.

By the time they got home, Irele impatiently put her things away in her room, got washed, and eagerly waited for Shmi to join her in the kitchen. The promise was that they were going to cook something together—a house favorite of Irele: Shmi’s own, delicious recipe. They had saved enough from their wages separately, and in total, they had enough to buy ingredient for a hearty, full supper consisting of meat, a medley of mushrooms and vegetables, and fruits and pallies for dessert.

They could only do this once for their individual pay was rather low.

All of this is a celebration of Irele turning eight.

A simple celebration with fulfilling food on the table, with no one else but her mother and herself, in the coziness of their cottage—to Irele, it was wonderful. And perfect.

It was everything she could ever ask for.

* * *

Months after their promised celebration, Irele had been seeing a man with sandy brown hair and a scraggly stubble. Maybe once or twice, she saw him clean-shaven. She always saw him frequenting Watto’s shop, either to buy or play Sabacc—but oftentimes, the latter in which Watto had a questionable win record. One should not be surprised if the blue Toydarian won through his swindler’s methods.

This man was Cliegg Lars.

Apparently, Shmi had caught the eye of Cliegg, as he frequented the junkshop in search of parts mostly for speeders and other machines he uses. Despite being a child, Lars’s feelings did not escape the insightful Irele; in her opinion, he’d been coming over to the shop a little too often for someone who kept fixing speeders. Although, she cannot be certain if his motives are true; it’s still a lead nonetheless. Even she had drawn attention to herself from the man, shying away from his gruff yet friendly hello’s, and then curiously watching him deal with Watto whilst hiding behind walls.

It wasn’t long until Cliegg began to fall for Shmi, rooting from their day-to-day interactions with one another whenever he would stop by. He pretended that he doesn’t feel Irele tailing them, but he didn’t let that bother him—she’s a child after all, he thought.

Shmi presently being a mother with a daughter in tow didn’t trouble Cliegg. A man of ethics—a rare trait in this lawless ball of sand—he could not imagine buying off Shmi from Watto, but then leaving the child to the Toydarian. Fortunately for Lars, it was evident that Watto’s gambling—with a not-so-impressive track record to boot—had gradually collapsed his business. Little by little, Watto’s wares had either been disposed of or been sold to the lowest possible price in the hopes of keeping the business up. When there was nothing else to profit from, Watto would be forced to sell his remaining property—the mother and child slaves. Cliegg took it from there.

From a certain point of view, his proposition of buying Shmi and Irele intrigued the Toydarian.

“How much you gunna pay fo meh two slaves, eh?” rasped Watto, irreparably pronouncing “slaves” as _slehvz_ in his thick, native Toydarian accent.

“I can pay you twenty thousand each,” Cliegg bobbed his head for the dramatics, pretending to be pensive. “I’ll pawn off my X-class landspeeder to pay them.”

A single holodisk produced a projection of the item in question. The speeder—brand new and in its prime, only seven months old—was an interesting wager in and of itself. The rusty-reddish paint job would stand out in the desert, whether up close or in the horizon, sunlight would bounce off on the sheen of the thrusters’ metallic sections. Truly a shiny new toy.

Cliegg could have sworn he heard the clinking of credits when Watto’s eyes lit up with greedy intrigue.

 _Good, that’s gotten his attention._ Thought the man.

Watto hovered himself closer to the projection, his flimsy wings struggled to carry his weight as they flapped erratically, and rubbed his fleshy chin at the same time. To the flying sentient, it wasn’t a bad deal, at least for Lars’s expense in his mind—the ratio of the trade somewhat balances out: Lars wants two things from him, thus he wagers something in the same worth.

“You must think me a fool, Watto,” Cliegg noted the perhaps long silence of Watto examining the images. “To pay you the price of a single landspeeder for two slaves.”

The Toydarian chuckled, then gestured defensively, “No, no. I don’t that, Lars, meh friend. In fact, this is quite an int’resting _investment._ ” His emphasis on the word “investment” made him enunciate the S into a harsh, buzzing Z.

Perhaps, it is in the nature of every Toydarian to call anything an investment—even a gamble on a card game. There aren’t many of Watto’s kind here in Tatooine, but that is the only impression Cliegg can pick up from Watto for his opinion on the species. Not having any of the suspense, the man tried to broke the deal until they can shake on it. Watto came so far as making an event out of it, but Lars insisted to refrain from the grandeur, to which his beneficiary gave in.

They finally shook on it. The two males were clueless that Irele had been eavesdropping on their exchange. It was a bad habit that Shmi had gently reprimanded her of, but just this once, she had never been invested in someone else’s conversation—only because the subject was their freedom at stake, and it was this stranger who dared to go through this length of settling an agreement with their current slaver. Irele’s mind was in a whirl—would he be a kinder slaver than Watto? More generous or more cruel? With their conversation going on what felt like hours, she had resorted to sitting on the floor, her back against the wall as she listened in on their voices.

The girl heard the door chimes followed by the silence, then she scrambled to her feet when she heard the flapping of Watto’s wings grow louder and disappeared as quietly as she could.

Two days later after that agreement had been set in stone, today’s the fateful day: Shmi finds out only now that she and Irele had been sold to Cliegg Lars. When Watto announced that he’s sold them together to this man, understandably, the woman was taken aback from her lack of prior knowledge, and she had every right to be surprised. Her daughter, on the other hand, feigned it—her false silence fit in with the mood of the room.

Shmi and Irele Skywalker watched the pouch of credits transfer from Cliegg’s hand to Watto’s, signifying that they now belong to Cliegg Lars.

“Take them,” Watto says, although somberly. He hovers in place as he watches Shmi and Irele join Cliegg out of the shop.

“I wish you good luck on your business, Watto,” Lars bade, however, it felt backhanded.

At the entrance of the junkshop awaited a pair of eopies—tall, quadrupedal animals that served as mounts for people and carriers of cargo—handled by a Jawa that Cliegg hired for a few hours.

“I’m sorry if I couldn’t give you two a more comfortable ride to your new home,” there was a sincerity in Lars’s voice, warm and genuine, something that Shmi nor Irele had not heard for a long time.

“It’s fine,” Shmi stuttered while trying to be polite. “I’m more used with the mount than speeders.”

“Ah, well, where you’re living—you’ll get used to it, but I’ll let you do it in your own pace.”

With a simple waving gesture from Cliegg, the Jawa hauled the animal pair then coaxed both to go down on their knees—level enough so the humans can hop on their backs. Each eopie grunted when they felt more weight on themselves; Shmi and Irele shared one saddle, Lars took the lead from town to their new home.


	3. The Homestead

Normally, it would take a rider on an eopie to travel from Mos Espa to the Jundland Wastes in five hours maximum.  Cliegg, Shmi, and Irele  saved themselves an hour or two by spurring the mounts to their full speed.  In three hours, they’ve passed by Anchorhead, ending up in the Great Chott salt flat where the Lars homestead and moisture farm are nestled.

J ust in the horizon, Irele could spot the white dome structure just a few more miles away. The binary suns are in full view of the sky. Cliegg grunted a command, and Shmi echoed it—thus, the animals kicked the dust at their heels, transitioning from their leisurely gait to a long-legged gallop.  When the pair of eopies neared the house, a younger man—perhaps in his teens—comes out to greet the arriving pair of travelers.

“I take it that you’re done with your chores, Owen?”

“Just finished, right before you got here actually,”

Owen is Cliegg’s son , perhaps a younger shell of Cliegg as the boy has inherited his father’s sandy brown hair.  The  youth  shifted his look from his father  carrying a shut-down protocol droid to the second eopie carrying a woman and child; he watched the animal be coaxed to its knees by the female rider, the child jumped off first before her mother.

“You bought two of them?”

“You rather I separate mother and child? Would you think it right?” Cliegg quietly lectured.

T he son did not argue further, for Cliegg was right.  The man handed over the lifeless protocol droid to his son who carried it with great care and regard; the father whispered that it’s still in working condition, it just needed plating to protect its circuits.  Irele was reluctant  to approach Owen, but Shmi gently rung her arm around her daughter’s shoulder, and so the girl’s legs moved on their own following her mother’s pace.

“Hi there, I’m Owen,”

There’s a shy silence from the girl and took a pace back,  blocked by her mother standing right behind her.

“Shmi, Irele,” Clieg addressed and looked at them respectively. “This is my son, Owen.”

“Hello,” the son managed a smile. “Why don’t you come in and let me show you around.”

I rele still hesitates.

“Go on,” Shmi cooed.

While Owen gave a tour of the house for Shmi and Irele, Cliegg would interject to show where Shmi and Irele would be of help around the home. Secretly, during the tour, Shmi would search for the matriarch of this household.

“Is there something wrong, Shmi?”

Shmi began with stammers and had to clear her throat.

“I was wondering where your wife is.”

Cliegg smacked his lips, preparing for an answer. Clueless, Shmi looked at Cliegg for a moment before she got a hint of the silence , she felt her cheeks burn hotter than the Dune Sea at high noon. Now feeling embarrassed, Shmi struggled to coherently apologized; Cliegg insisted that there was no harm done and briefly explained that his wife ha d passed. The woman expressed her condolences before moving on.

From the outdoor rotunda which intersects the different sections of the house, the combined voices of Owen and Irele grew louder and echoed through the open door frames—the noise causing both parents of each child to turn to the general direction where the kids are.

“Looks like they’re getting along quite well,” Cliegg chuckled.

Meanwhile,  the two children have moved on from the living room to the  kitchen—perhaps the widest Irele has ever seen in a house!  She separated from Owen and ran off on her own, but the boy had caught up to her quickly and found in her the quarters hall. Scanning the area, she found three rooms, one of which was sealed off by a metal door.

T he girl raises a finger pointing at the closed door.

“Is that where we’re gonna sleep?”

“Um…” Owen stuttered, before he could complete his words, Irele continued speaking.

“Is that where your slaves stay?”

Irele kept pouring questions, one after another; not leaving a space of a second for Owen to  answer each one.

“So, me and mom—are we your first slaves or second?”

“A-Actually, my dad doesn’t feel comfortable when he calls you people ‘slaves,’ it just doesn’t feel right to him—myself included.”

“But… that’s what we are,”

All of a sudden, Irele’s inquisitive tone became somber. The reality has sunken into the eight-year-old’s mind, having no choice but to accept that lot in life.

“Hey now, we’re not gonna let you feel like one the same you guys did back in your old owner,” Owen reassured the girl in quite a brotherly way that Irele found comforting.

I rele’s eyes turned to the droid on Owen’s shoulders. She gestured a nod at it.

“His name is C3PO, in case you were wondering.”

“Oh, this?” Owen angled slightly so that C3PO faces Irele, who giggled. “I was almost worried that I had to figure out his model name and make a nickname out of that!”

“No, C3PO or 3PO is fine,” chuckled Irele.

That same afternoon, they already started working around in the house.  Having to leave their house in Mos Espa to stay in the Lars homestead was also a big adjustment—literally and figuratively.  Shmi was overwhelmed  with how spacious the homestead is, and she knew that she needed to get used to it. Though it relieved her that Irele was slowly feeling comfortable around the house and the people who live in it.

In the evening, Shmi prepared dinner without being prompted to. She had remembered the times Cliegg had told her when they usually have their meals; of course, Irele helped around in the kitchen while the two men of the house finished their work in the farm and the small rotunda—for Owen at least.  When father and son had completed the day’s tasks, they were greeted with a table of food but only set for both of them; Shmi didn’t hint the slight puzzlement in Cliegg’s face as his head slightly shifted left and right—counting only two plates, for himself and his son. The patriarch of the house seated himself awkwardly at the front of the table, with his son sitting on his left hand side. Now that their new owners have settled for dinner, Shmi and Irele silently decided to make themselves useful someplace else in the house—the girl was thinking she could while away her time in their garage, fix things that needed fixing. Cliegg stood up, causing a confused Owen to stop in the middle of piercing the meat with his fork, and chased the tandem  who were now a few paces away from the dining room.

Cliegg grunted, supposedly to call out their names to stop them; regardless, Shmi and Irele turned around.

“Where are you going?” asked the patriarch.

“Oh, we were just going to work around the house while you have supper.”

“No, no,” Cliegg waved his hand and then transitioned to a gesture of welcome. “Please, come sit, and eat with us.”

Irele’s head tilted up to her mother, shooting her a trivial look,  and slightly tightened her grip around her mother’s slightly bigger hand. Taken aback, Shmi didn’t know how and what to respond. Cliegg insisted again, though gently, as he always does with his actions. When the two had joined the other pair,  only then did  Cliegg began with his food; his first bite of Shmi’s cooking was delightful—he chewed slowly, savoring the flavor of meat and vegetables, he never spared a second to take a second the moment he swallowed the first bite. His reaction affirmed Shmi, in her mind, she had hoped she made a good impression to him as their new servant; Cliegg gestured at the food, wordlessly inviting Shmi to help herself, as well as Irele.

Irele only revealed a smile when she put the spoon in her mouth. Her mother’s cooking was the first reason . The second reason? The warmth that she felt around this house, at this table—it was surreal. She had craved for it—in the back of her mind, she did, she just didn’t know it would come this soon and from a person like Cliegg and Owen Lars.

“Hey Irele, tomorrow morning I’m gonna fix the vaporators in the farm. And maybe we can fix up C3PO. You wanna join?” Owen engaged.

Irele looked to her mother first for some kind of approval and then she nodded at Owen.

“But you gotta be early tomorrow morning!”

“Oh don’t worry, I never miss an hour!” she chimed.

Laughter sourced from the two children, then their parents accompanied with soft chuckles.

For a moment, Irele nearly forgot her life of slavery because it felt like she and her mother had walked into a new family.

* * *

A few months of their tenure in the Lars homestead, rarely did they  ever  feel they were slaves. H elper was a kinder word,  though not as demeaning as slave .  Shmi and Irele worked around the house with full initiative and gusto, enjoying what liberty they have around the house—such as cooking for Shmi, and tinkering for Irele—something that was deprived of them  back in that junkshop .

R emembering that promise, Irele  joined Owen to the farm where he would show her the vaporators and how to fix them. Owen went ahead and started working on one of them, struggling with a wrench as Irele watched. Slowly, she went sat closer to Owen to examine the problem.

“There’s something lodged in there,” Irele pointed. “Here, let me.”

“Alright,”

Her slender fingers and tiny hands managed to scrape off whatever what was lodging the small hatch of the vaporator. While she’s at it, she noticed a loose wire in the circuit box and replaced it. Owen watched, impressed at the small child who would know such things. Irele grunted when the plug had fitted neatly into the correct socket and dusted off her hands together.

“How’d you learn to do that?”

“I worked in a podrace garage and in a parts junkshop. The podrace garage is just a part-time.”

“Well, that’s impressive for a kid,” Owen chuckled, forgetting he was a child as well. “But I guess we gotta know these things at this age, right? If we wanna survive.”

“Yeah, they’ll always come in handy.”

The two children continued with their chores. Cliegg joined them briefly to teach Irele how to harvest and how some of their equipment work. When the girl caught on quickly, seeing that she was a fast learner and Owen can handle himself in supervising her, the elder Lars returned to the homestead.

There came a time where Irele had to cut her day short and return to the house, leaving Owen with the other farmers—friends of Cliegg—that day. On the way, she didn’t know what to feel, but she sensed something unusual—she could not pinpoint, however, if it was good or bad. In the back of her mind, something was telling her—no,  _ consoling _ her—that things will be fine and not the way she thought it would. When she arrived to the house, she spotted that her mother behaved differently—tightly rubbing her one clenched fist with the other, and holding back a smile.

“What’s going on?”

Shmi stood up from her seat in the dining hall and walked up to her daughter.

“Mom?”

“Irele, dear,” the woman took the child’s hand, looked over her shoulder to Cliegg and then back to Irele. “Cliegg is going to free us.”

The girl’s jaw dropped and her heart burst through her tiny ribs right then and there. Elated, confused, and overjoyed—she didn’t know what to make of these emotions all at once! Shmi could feel the shakiness of her daughter’s hands, Irele looked to Cliegg—speechless, but he must’ve understood and nodded as a wordless “You’re welcome.”

T hat same day, Cliegg called for Owen  to come home  as well . And so the family hopped onto a speeder and  drove to Jabba the Hutt’s palace.  Not one human in that speeder knew fluent Huttese, and so they tagged C3PO along— now outfitted with metal plates, they were tarnished in color but it was better than be a biped of exposed red and blue wires .  There, they were greeted by a flesh-colored Twi’lek—Jabba’s loyal butler, Bib Fortuna— and  immediately required them to state their purpose while a pair of Gamorrean guards stood on either side.  C3PO greeted  the Twi’lek  in Huttese,  accompanied by a slow bow, in the humans’ behalf.  In Basic, Cliegg requested an audience with  Jabba the Hutt  for an appeal .

The male Twi’lek’s head slightly angled in intrigue after hearing the translation.

“An appeal?” Fortuna said to himself, barely muttering the word in the other language.

C3PO furthered his human owners’ purpose by briefly explaining what the appeal is about. It doubly piqued Bib when the droid gestured to the mother and child tandem of slaves,  he somewhat got the idea,  and he paused to contemplate or perhaps rehearse how he will present this to his master.

Nevertheless, the Twi’lek escorted the visitors to the audience chamber, where the master of the house: Jabba the Hutt, remains unmoving in his throne—which was more or less a stage—while toothlessly chewing on the mouthpiece of what ought to be an ornate hookah pipe.  Irele felt small when she entered that chamber. There were eyes on her—human, humanoid, sentient alike—when she looked around and saw them drinking and mingling. Upon facing the Hutt, Fortuna bowed before presenting the visitors, he addressed to Jabba in the latter’s native dialect before joining the Hutt’s side.

The droid took one step  forward , literally standing between Jabba and the family.  Detecting some sort of prompt, C3PO first greeted the Hutt to appease him, and then proceeded  to relay  Cliegg ’ s request directly in Huttese.

Jabba hummed  and his pupils dilated—with the same intrigue of Bib Fortuna.  In his lack of a response, Cliegg follows up.

“I would like to request the freedom of my—” Cliegg paused and turned around. He cleared his throat. “These two slaves. I bought them from a Toydarian junkshop trader. Now that they are under my name, in my home, under my wing—I have deliberately decided to free them.”

If one has lived in Tatooine long enough to know how Hutts operate in their presiding territory,  it is no surprise that such a bold request requires collateral or a barter.  Cliegg had prepared for this apparently:  he’s prepared to give a percentage of his harvest for five standard years to the Hutt, plus an adequate sum of money .

“ _You drive a hard bargain, Lars_ _,”_ Jabba croaked in Huttese. There was a pause from the family and the Hutt continued. _“_ _Though, I appreciate the fact that you have prepared this. And to show that I am a generous leader, and that I have no qualms with you farmers nor your families: keep the money and give me fifty percent of your harvest.”_

The Hutt’s generosity is rare, but it’s not surprising that he is not harsh towards people who have no qualms but it’s the safest route to appease him. Cliegg bit his tongue and gave a grateful bow.

“You are most gracious, Jabba.”

Jabba returned the bow and dismissed the family, as if second nature, Bib Fortuna saw them out the same way he escorted them inside. Once they have gotten through the massive metal gates and the echoing clang signaled the end of their business, Shmi turned to Cliegg—her blush concealed by a mask of a mild sunburn.

“Thank you, but I don’t know how I can ever repay you,”

“But I felt like it was the right thing to do,” Cliegg then turned to Irele, who was still elated from the entire ordeal. “A slave’s life is not a life for a child and her mother.”

I rele didn’t speak, but she smiled back at the remark.


	4. Two Ends Meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl it was difficult antagonizing the Tuskens after seeing how they are in season 2 of The Mandalorian.

_**22 BBY** _

Several months after their emancipation, Cliegg had asked Shmi’s hand in marriage—to which she happily said yes. Irele had just turned nine that time; she and mother had grown quite close to the Lars father and son. The joy in her little heart of having a bigger family was overwhelming, it’s almost as if she forgot that she and Shmi were ever a slave. That life of theirs was now past. Irele now has a father figure, and a brother to boot—and she was content.

Eventually, Irele had known friends who were the children of the other farmers that Cliegg worked with. She was also introduced to Beru Whitesun—a fair-skinned brunette who caught her stepbrother’s heart—the two girls grew quite close too quickly. The Lars siblings still helped around with the farm, Shmi had started going to the fields with them as well; though the toll of their debt to the Hutt was slowly catching up to them, having them to work extra hard and persisting to yield more crops so there’s enough to sell and to keep for themselves.

One day in the middle of working in the fields with her mother and stepbrother, Irele’s gaze trailed to her mother—bent down to pick the crops and vegetables that were ripe for the taking, she smiled to herself as she stared at Shmi, until a mild pang pierced her head.

“Irele, are you alright?” Owen noticed and caught his sister by the arm.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she groaned. “Just the heat, maybe.”

“Do you need something to drink?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Pausing from work, she isolated herself from one of the canopies they’ve put up if ever one of them decides to rest. She continues to examine the scene of the field: the farmers including Cliegg, her brother, and her mother working. Though she always focused on Shmi; her grip on the waterskin faltered, causing some drops to spill over, and then sighed and decided to close her eyes to doze off for a bit. As echoing screams in Shmi’s voice haunted her mind, she woke up in a jolt—a single scream escaped when she woke and it alarmed the workers in the field. Shmi ran up to her daughter under the canopy, Cliegg followed behind his wife.

“Irele!” Shmi gasped. “Irele, are you alright?”

Shmi brushed up the loose strands of hair dangling over her daughter’s forehead, sweat smeared on her palm. Irele gasped when she opened her eyes once more and saw Shmi.

“Oh, Mom…”

“Darling, what’s happened?”

“Nothing, I…” Irele shook her head, incapable of explaining what she had just experienced. “This heat is making me see things.”

“Oh, Irele, dear,” Shmi clicked her tongue and sighed. “It’s alright. You can sit down for the rest of the day. You don’t need to work anymore.”

“Okay, Mom.”

Shmi smiled, though it was a worried one. She brushed Irele’s hair back to her ear and returned to work.

“If you need anything, Irele, don’t be shy to call, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.”

Not wanting to worry her family with such episodes, Irele decided to bottle it up to herself—even if the visions mostly revolve around her mother. But there was something else—something that she cannot pinpoint. She was seeing things that are about to happen, which she dismissed as pessimistic imagination, though she doesn’t know that these are events that are about to unfold. Little did she knew that the Force was making its way to her, to warn her of something horrible that has yet to come.

The next few months have been difficult for Irele herself—the visions and the voices persisted—oftentimes she wakes up in a cold sweat when the nightmares have become more jarring. She pretended that everything was fine, though she’s become increasingly worried for her mother, most of the time she pleaded Shmi not to work in the fields and just stay at home—even offering to help around in the house. Shmi detected this new concern from Irele, and then unconsciously recalled the same words that Qui Gon Jinn uttered about her son: seeing things that have yet to happen.

_A Jedi trait._

Shmi shook her head and granted Irele’s request, staying at home when the ten-year-old pleaded so. It eased her for a bit whenever Irele’s expression changed when they spend the day at home, however, it worried her that her daughter was perhaps foreseeing events that could spell disaster for the family and ultimately damage the poor girl.

There was one day where Shmi went out alone, before the break of dawn, to the fields. It took her half an hour to scrounge and pick up mushrooms that she needed for her family’s meal today. The chore became her undoing. Tusken Raiders have been prowling the ridges as a vantage point over the fields, they have been scouting the fields in the hopes of raiding the crops. They saw Shmi walking off from the fields, carrying a satchel of mushrooms and other vegetables; not wanting any witnesses, they sprang out on her in numbers—their primal grunts echoed across the empty dunes, Shmi’s scream was short-lived and drowned out by theirs.

The Tuskens incapacitated Shmi by hitting the back of her head with the pommel of their long rifle. They bound her ankles and wrists, and mounted her like a ragdoll on the saddle of their Bantha.

Their echoes have died down, leaving the desert as desolate, quiet, and empty as it always has. Irele gasped, wide awake, beads of sweat dotted her forehead.

“MOM IS GONE!!” She announced with such a loud voice that it was heard throughout the entire homestead, up to the outdoor rotunda.

Cliegg was awakened by the sound of Irele’s voice, but only registered it as a loud sound; he was alerted when his free hand patted his right hand side and found Shmi’s side of the bed empty. He knew that it was her routine to leave early to pick out crops before everyone else gathered in the fields. There was daylight already. Normally, Shmi would have returned even before the sun had risen. When he stood up from bed and comforted Irele in her bedroom, a look of concerned veiled his face as he saw his stepdaughter all wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

“Irele, it’s okay, your mother just went out to pick out mushrooms, it’s okay.” he shushed but it was futile.

“Sorry, Dad, I need to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

Irele spoke while she prepares herself—putting on her overshirt, slinging her bag across her body, and producing a staff that she procured on her own.

“I’m sorry, I just really can’t say. But I do have a gut feeling that I just can’t ignore. Something’s not right, Dad.”

Cliegg was speechless. Irele joined him on her bed, sitting beside him.

“I’ll contact you with the comlink, okay? Keep the lines open.”

The man held his daughter’s cheek, taking a good look at her made him realize that she greatly resembled her mother.

“Be careful. And come home quick.”

She nodded and then left with a small speeder bike. When she had gone a considerable distance from the homestead, Cliegg commanded Owen to call the men and tell them to stand by. Going in the direction of the fields, Irele’s worry grew and grew with each passing moment. When she had caught sight of the vaporators’ silhouettes sticking out, she slowed down the speeder bike and hopped down even before it had gotten into a full stop.

Irele spotted Shmi’s tracks—a straight line from the fields to where she stood—and then discovered more. The footprints were jumbled, indicating struggle, and an impression that might have suggested that a person fell over to the ground—the girl was certain it was her mother. She searched for more tracks, propping her staff in a cautious, offensive position, and then stepped forward to the fields but was immediately stopped when she heard a shuffle amongst the sand and rock.

“Tuskens…” she muttered.

She examined the sand once more—a trail of a neat, single line, with impressions that make it too hard to guess how many have walked in the exact same path laid out before her. Tuskens, alright. She surveyed the surrounding ridges, the distance from the fields to the openness of the desert, and she thought it wise to deduce that it was indeed them. She produced her comlink and reported back to Cliegg before heading home. She already had the presumption her father had prepared a search party.

* * *

Anakin Skywalker is in a perpetual unrest with himself. Mainly because he had been having nightmares of his mother—the haunting echoes of her agonizing screams, her calls for help, and the quick jab of dead silence had been keeping him awake at night.

That morning, he strolled out of his bedroom and found himself alone in the garden veranda of the guest house that he and Senator Padmé Amidala are staying in the Lake Country of Naboo. He basked in the morning sunlight, the cool breeze wafting through the sleeves of his long beige shirt and drying the sweat smeared across his chest. Padmé found him there and quietly turned around to leave him alone.

“Don’t go,” he simply said, though pleadingly. It stopped her in her tracks. “Your presence is soothing.”

The young Jedi Padawan opened up about his nightmares to the Senator, she hints at the shakiness in his voice, imagining what kind of dreams could he be seeing in the middle of the night. When push comes to shove, the senator insisted she will go to Tatooine with him.

“I’ll go with you.” despite the softness in her voice, there was the conviction that cannot be persuaded anymore.

Upon their arrival, they hired a carriage into the town to escort them from the docking bay. Returning here brought back memories for Anakin—many of which are bittersweet. The carriage had brought them to the market district of the town, where it had passed by a lonely stall—or lack thereof—manned by a single Toydarian.

“Chut-chut, Watto,” Anakin greeted.

The blue, aging Toydarian grumbled at the robed stranger who took the component and started tinkering with it after speaking in the local dialect. Watto greeted back the young stranger in his raspy, aggressive native tongue then transitioned into a bumbling mess when he recognized the Jedi robes; Anakin ignored all this as he was focused with the machine component.

The Jedi spoke once more, again in dialect, _“I’m looking for Shmi Skywalker_ _.”_

One more minute passed and it hit Watto.

“Ani…?” the Toydarian gasped. “Little Ani?”

Anakin didn’t speak. He simply put down the component back on the small table between him and Watto.

“You are Ani! It is you!!” Watto burst.

Following a few more compliments and one-sided catching up, Watto cut to the chase in the hopes that he can have the boy catch some people who owe him money.

“My mother.” Anakin demanded.

“Oh, right, of course… Shmi!” bumbled Watto. He scratched the back of his chubby neck as he arranged the words in his mind. “She’s not mine anymore… I sold her.”

“Sold her?”

“Years ago. I sold her to a moisture farmer named Lars. And believe it or not! I heard he freed her—and married her! Whaddaya think o’ dat, eh?!”

Both the Jedi and the senator’s reactions were identical: their lips parted and their eyebrows furrowed. Anakin licked his lips and leaned closer.

“Do you know where they are now?”

“A long way from here,” but Watto should have known that is not enough to deter the boy. “Someplace on the other side of Mos Eisley.”

“I’d like to know,” he spoke through the grit of his teeth.

Nervous, the Toydarian gave in and filled him in with all the details.  Inside his newer yet smaller shop, the hovering creature produced a small ledger with a tattered leather cover. Running a clawed finger lightly on the page, careful as to not rip it, he stopped after two taps on a specific line of writing.

“I was right, it _was_ Lars!” he chortled.

“Where does he live?”

W atto groaned, poring over his ledger again, and then moved his finger to another part of the page.

“He lives in ‘da Salt Flats, eh, you’ll find it close to Anchorhead. You know Anchorhead, eh, Ani?”

Without answering, Anakin turned tail—with Padmé walking by his side, trying to keep up with his strides—and mounted their rented carriage. Anakin ordered the droid that pulled it to bring them to a  point-to-point transport service to get to Anchorhead.

Along the entire trip, Padmé could not find an opening to speak with Anakin; it began to sink into her that she’s only tagging along with the young Jedi’s personal mission.


	5. Brother, Brother

They arrived at the moisture farm, the exact one that Watto told them. The domed abode stood out across the surrounding dunes, behind it were the suns hoisted in its point for high noon. As Anakin and Padmé approached, a dark-colored figure got into their better view—little did the Jedi knew that the figure posted outside was the droid he had created years ago.

“Oh!” startled, the droid turned around to face the visitors. “Hello, how may I be of service? I am C—”

“3PO?” Anakin squinted some more, unsure whether the sunlight was playing tricks on his already narrowed eyes.

The droid paused, its photoreceptors processing the face of the young man before him, and then it dawned on him.

“Could it be? The Maker!” the black droid exclaimed. “Master Ani, I knew you would return! Oh and Miss Padmé, oh my.”

At least Padmé was delighted to have been remembered by the droid she has not seen in a decade.

“Bless my circuits! I’m so pleased to see you both.”

“I’ve come to see my mother,” the droid’s maker said in the same steely tone he used when speaking with the Toydarian, affording no moment for the droid to celebrate this small reunion.

C3PO stuttered, unsure how to begin responding to that purpose.

“Yes, well, I do believe it is best I bring you inside.”

The droid stiffly turned around, expecting the human pair to follow, and they were escorted into the ground floor of the Lars homestead.

From the kitchen, Owen could hear C3PO speaking like a tour guide. He had figured it might have been the person he thought would come, he just didn’t realize it’d be today. Out of common courtesy, he—along with the Whitesun girl—came out of the kitchen to greet their guests.

“Master Owen, might I present to you the two most important visitors.”

“I’m Anakin Skywalker.”

“Owen Lars. And this is my girlfriend, Beru.”

Beru managed a smile to both visitors before softly saying “Hello.”

“I’m Padmé.”

“I guess I’m your stepbrother,” he swallowed. “I had a feeling you might show up someday.”

Anakin didn’t take that kindly, he had no emotional reaction to it—he’s just here for his mother.

“Is my mother here?” he demanded, stepping away from his apparent stepbrother.

“No, she’s not,” a gruff voice drew everyone’s attention to its direction, followed by the soft whirring of a hoverchair.

Cliegg had aged, though not quite well, given what had happened in the past. He extended a hand as he introduced himself.

“Shmi is my wife,” he added. “We should go inside. We have a lot to talk about.”

Owen quickly came to his father, taking the two handles protruding outward from the backrest of the chair.

“Where is your sister?”

“She hasn’t come back yet,”

“Well, she better come home quick.” Grumbled the elder Lars only within Owen’s earshot.

They all gathered at the dining table. Cliegg began with how he met Shmi, how he bought her, and eventually freed her. The old man chuckled once as he studied the boy’s features while he was listening in carefully, even while he stares at his hands clasped together.

“You know, it’s funny,” he began, the remark caught Anakin’s attention. “I never realize that you and Irele have the same eyes—but I think she resembles Shmi’s the most.”

Anakin’s eyes shifted shakily, his lips parted but no words escaped from it; he looked alternately between Cliegg and Owen, wordlessly demanding some clarification to what Cliegg said. Anakin blinked once, dramatically so, and finally managed to let out the words: “I… Irele?”

Everyone on that very table exchanged looks, but the other party was more confused and perhaps curious on who’s this Irele person that they don’t know of. Cliegg’s last words also got to Anakin and he decoded it quickly—but as he solved the minor riddle, more questions piled up after the answer. Has his mother given him a sister without his knowledge? Why hasn’t he felt her through the Force? Is she not gifted with the same abilities as he is?

“W-Where… Where is she?”

“She’s probably out in town with the other children her age. Irele is coping, you see, but I don’t think it’s not doing her much good. Overworking, finding and taking one too many odd jobs—more than she can handle—”

“Coping?” Anakin asked for elaboration.

Cliegg guessed there’s no way of sliding his way out of that question. They will come to the point in the conversation on what had happened to Shmi. The mood in the dining room changed significantly. A gloomy silence befell Owen and Beru as they waited for the head of the house to begin the tale.

“Your mother went out early—just before dawn—to pick mushrooms, like she always does. But this one time, she was ambushed by the Tusken Raiders, they had been prowling by the ridge waiting to raid the farms when there’s no one looking—but they saw your mother. They attacked her and took her with them, kept her hostage. And your sister, well…”

The elderly man sighed, taking and then letting out a deep breath, he attempts to continue.

“She left the house to search for her the moment she got out of bed. I found her woken up by a cold sweat, then she insisted that something was wrong. I trusted her, believed her, and let her go find her mother in the fields. She came back empty-handed, I had already prepared a search party. Those Tuskens walk like men, but they’re vicious, mindless monsters. About thirty of us went, only four of us came back. I’d be out there with them, but after I lost my leg… I just couldn’t ride anymore until I heal. I don’t want to give up on her, but she’s been gone for a month.”

The silence was distrupted by the sound of light footsteps, the only noise that rung across the homestead apart from their voices.

“I’m home!” a girl’s voice announced. “Dad? Owen?”

Her voice and her arrival caught the attention of both her family and the two visitors. Anakin stood up and stepped out so that he can see—and be seen—the rotunda. Just a meter and a half away from him was a girl of ten years—nearing eleven—standing from the stairs from where he came when he himself arrived in this house.

Irele was immediately taken aback by this stranger, not because it was a new face—but because she was bothered by how familiar he looked and felt. A good minute has passed and it dawned on her. She knows who this is.

Anakin examined the girl: black hair tied back into a ponytail, donning a woven scarf to protect her from the sands, and a pair of earthy hazel eyes hooded with a somber, unreadable gaze—nearly similar a hue to Shmi’s eye color. Looking at her was like seeing Shmi in her girlhood, for Irele could perhaps grow to be the spitting image of their mother. This is his sister, he thought, but he wasn’t sure what to do or how to react and interact with her—neither of them have known much about the other. And they’ve only just met! To Irele, it felt like she had waited a lifetime to meet him; she always had that feeling, perhaps over time, she didn’t anticipate him as much.

“Irele…?” Anakin uttered.

“H-Hi…” she stuttered shyly, reacting to her name.

Cliegg spun his hoverchair, “Irele, this is your brother. Your _real_ brother.”

Irele’s brows furrowed, she blinked several times as she examined Anakin’s features. Perhaps she could not spot any resemblance yet, but eventually she would have—if she gave it time. As the siblings stared at one another; thoughts, questions, and even comments about each other’s appearances flood their minds.

_What does she know about me? Did Mom ever tell her about me?_

_There’s something I feel about him… though it’s making me too nervous. It’s almost like it’s something bad… or maybe because he just looks a little mean._

Before giving a proper reaction or even speaking a single word, she sprang to her heels and fled to her room, flimsily holding her satchel loosely by the strap, dangling just inches away from the ground as she ran.

The adults dismissed it as bashfulness and also surprise. Anakin did not go after her anymore and went to the direction of the front door.

“Give her time,” Cliegg advised.

“Where are you going?”

Anakin’s eyebrows slightly pulled, but Owen did not notice, “To go find my mother.”

“Your mother’s dead son, accept it. There’s little hope she’s lasted this long.”

In fact, he didn’t. He could never ever. Then Cliegg sighed in defeat, knowing that this boy might be just as stubborn as his little sister. He reached for Anakin’s forearm and clutched it weakly, slightly startling him.

“If you can’t do that… at least talk to your sister.”

The sky had burned into a golden orange hue, sunset was nearing. Night will be upon them soon. Anakin found Irele in the workshop, he recognized some of the apparatus to be Shmi’s—apparently, she had brought those with her when she and Irele were bought.

As he was approaching her, he caught a glimpse of what she was doing—she was piecing together a sort of tech that seemed familiar, along with a little help from her friends in town.

“Irele, I…”

“She told me about you,” Irele matched her brother’s firm tone of voice, though the hint of uncertainty rang along her words. She did not look at him, she spoke to him while keeping her eyes on her handicraft. “A long time ago. I just didn’t think we’d meet at this time.”

Anakin got close enough to get a better look at her tinkering, he examined the small machine and discovered that she was retrofitting a podracer’s dashboard.

Attempting and hoping he’d establish a connection with her, he caved in to listen on what Irele has to say.

“She told me that you were a great racer. You won against Sebulba.”

“Sebulba? He still races?”

Irele turned to Anakin, not exactly surprised that he still remembers the cheating Dug, though a decade’s worth of not knowing anything happening in Tatooine would at least fog his memory. His sister nodded slowly and then returned to fixing the dashboard.

“No, it’s…” she trailed off when she got too focused on arranging the wires. “It’s from a customer in Anchorhead. I used to be in a podracer’s pit stop entourage, when I was like six.”

“Do they still race?”

She shook her head, and answered the question she knew was coming, “Accident. Can’t drive a pod with just one arm, huh?”

Her posture straightened, she moved the magnifying lens away from her, and then secured the dashboard in a leather sleeve before settling it down neatly in the center of the workbench. Irele finally afforded a good long look at her big brother.

_Big brother… kinda weird to call him that._

“Ani,” she uttered, though she meant it as a practice of getting used to addressing him when talking to him. She didn’t really intend to call him, but he looked at her anyway. There was a pause before she continued.

“How much did Dad tell you—about Mom?”

It slightly baffled Anakin how casually she called Cliegg her father, he cannot blame her anyway if this is the father figure she grew up with.

“Just enough for me to know,” Anakin answered.

She hummed. Then Anakin decided to ask the question that has been lingering in his mind. If this was his _birth_ sister, was she born in the same way he was?

“Irele, perhaps you can tell me something,” he began.

Detecting the seriousness in his tone, she swiveled the chair to face him, propping her elbow on the table. Staring back at him with those hazel eyes that he cannot gaze upon without remembering Shmi—because he could definitely see his mother within his sister—he licked his lips before speaking.

“Cliegg isn’t really your father, is he?”

His sister stared at him some more with squinted eyes, bobbed her head to the side as she got the idea of his question. She wordlessly shook her head; when she did, then Anakin’s presumptions have been realized—she was _exactly_ like him. Within their moment together of just conversing, he could feel the Force flowing in her, although it was faint and seemingly dormant. In that case, her Force-sensitivity might be still untapped—what seemed to be a small stream on a quiet summer morning will eventually turn out to be a powerful, raging dam. And so it begs the question: will he report her to the Jedi Council?

“He told you about the Tuskens, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Oh…” Irele’s eyelids drooped as she looked randomly on the floor, avoiding her brother’s gaze. Another moment passed, both siblings were inept in speaking to one another casually—unlike how Irele is to Owen—but then she lifted her head again, and this time, she looked at her real big brother with pleading eyes, suggesting a sense of longing for their mother and sadness. The latter being a dangerous emotion to dwell on. “You’ll bring her back, won’t you… Anakin?”

Then at that moment, Anakin was both determined and burdened to keep such a promise. He was confident and hopeful that he would rescue Shmi, but with such a motivation fueled by the fear of loss, Irele was beginning to sense something ominous from him. In the back of her head, she was regretting what she asked of him. She saw a shadow loom over Anakin, as dark as his long robes that sweep the sand as he strode. Her heart pumped slowly and heavily, it suffocated her and made her nervous.

 _There’s something not right with him. Something… bad_ _._ She thought to herself, her fingers twitched with anxiety. It’s too late to take that back. Anakin has sealed a contract forged from her behest—which was also his. Now she wanted to stop him, because she know something bad was going to happen—executing the same foresight she had for Shmi.

“Anakin, are you alright?” Irele asked, and that seemed to snap him back to reality.

He stammered as he answers, “Yes. I… I just blanked out, I guess.”

“Right…” she groaned with a growing suspicion. “Just… Just don’t lose sight of what you came for.”

Her vague warning would allude to the preceding events. Anakin took her words to heart, and his being a Jedi gave him the advantage to read people better than most, to analyze their motives and desires. Hearing Irele say something like that hints her Jedi-like abilities: her foresight, which was something Qui Gon had noted of Anakin himself when he was still a child.

“I won’t,” he said with conviction, and then he managed a smile in the hopes of easing her spirits. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back.”

Irele’s thin lips pursed and watched her big brother turn around to leave her be in the workshop. When his back turned to her, that smile instantaneously melted away; her stomach slightly churned at the sight of his robes shadowing his figure—he looked broader and more intimidating, and quite ominous.

She had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling about this.


	6. Lingering Grief

“I love… Love…” Shmi choked before she succumbed to death, never able to complete the simplest yet most important of phrases.

Anakin’s shaky fingers closed his mother’s eyes.  The pang of grief was quickly overtaken by an unquenchable vengeance.

A  heavy, ominous darkness blankets the Tusken encampment. The guards outside Shmi’s tent barely had a reaction time to the ignition of Anakin’s lightsaber; when they had turned around after the flaps of the tent hit their sleeve, they were cut down without the hesitation of a moment.

Alarmed by the attack, the Tuskens untied their massiffs—their reptilian guard dogs—and unleashed those hounds on Anakin, before advancing to attack the intruding Jedi themselves. The rage and grief seething within him was weaponized, it had amplified his swordsmanship; however, it made his movements raggedy, uncalculated, and unbecoming of his practiced lightsaber form. He planted his feet on the ground while he kept his eyes straight on the enemy. Or were they at all?

One after another, the Tuskens came at him—cycler rifles and staves brandished in the air—and were instantaneously felled, not even allowed to have a swing of their own weapons. One of them alerted the snipers who were in the perimeter of the encampment, supposedly on patrol; many of them went for the encampment, attempting to give support in the skirmish, but they were quickly losing—despite outnumbering the Jedi to fifty or so.

When push comes to shove, a number of the females braved and took up arm to fight off this murderous trespasser—who’s cutting them by the numbers.  In their native tongue, they urged one another to join the ranks and charge. The women  joined the fray, amongst the males, while some other females—particularly mothers—scurried with their young into their tents for safety. Now, the latter caught Anakin’s attention.

Anakin cut through the Tuskens’ defenses, man and woman alike, and sliced down the mothers first then their children next, sometimes the other way around. The wounded but living mothers howled in the night, carrying their children—grown and newborn—sorrowfully wailing, praying to their deities to deliver them mercy from this agony. And that exact deliverance came in the form of a blinding blue beam of light. However, their granted prayers were not of mercy, but of an unquenchable hatred, more like a punishment—from a certain point of view.

But then again, does the way of death matter?

He proceeded to finish off the stragglers, many of them fatally injured and are just scrambling on the sand with one hand extended in a pleading gesture. In their eyes, Anakin appeared to them like an executioner—with the campfire at his back, tracing his unhooded silhouette, and a cyan beam illuminating his distorted features. That was the final thing they ever saw before their bodies met the lightsaber, a noble weapon now used for an atrocious annihilation.

That night, Anakin never discriminated. He killed not only the men, but the women, and the children, too. He left nothing in his wake but death and destruction.

* * *

In the middle of it all, a chill wraps around Irele over her shoulders. She thought it strange, it’s only the first few hours of nightfall—where it’s usually warm at that time of the day and the cold gradually creeps in. The cold was dramatically different from the desert breeze at dusk. It crawled along her arms, then snaked over her spine and the small of her back, forcing her to pause from her pastime of creating beaded and woven crafts—a hobby she picked up from Shmi.

“What’s wrong, Irele?” asked Beru, mending a scarf in the common room.

“Is it just me or has it gotten unusually colder?”

Beru’s eyes flicked to the side, paused to feel a draft, and then shrugged. She was wearing a short-sleeved tunic paired with her long skirt. She would have felt the same as Irele, but she didn’t. When the older girl noted the uneasiness in Irele’s expression, she stood up and patted her forehead.

“Are you alright, Irele? You don’t seem to have a fever.”

“No, but I guess it was just a funny feeling. Maybe heatstroke.”

“Irele, we’re all too used to the heat here to get a heatstroke,” Beru chuckled. “If any, we’d get one if we were in a volcanic planet!”

The girls shared a chuckle with the lighthearted joke, which may have distracted Irele for a bit until she eventually dismissed it as indeed a funny feeling, but only for a second.

She had been waiting for Anakin—along with their mother—to come home, but given that they lack the whereabouts of this Tusken band, she though perhaps he had asked the locals along the way, like Jawas and vagabonds. When the hours have passed, the night had grown darker, Irele had no choice but to sleep on it.

In her bed, the cold persisted. She pulled up her blanket—her favorite one for it was handmade by her mother—until it covered her up to her nose, exposing her only from the eyes up. She tried closing her eyes, but her lids twitched, begging to be opened.  Lying flat on her back, facing the ceiling, staring at the stone ceiling, she wondered and imagined where Anakin and Shmi would be.

“Mom… I hope he brings you home safely.”

More thoughts coaxed into Irele’s mind. They’re hopeful thoughts. Behind her eyes, she’d visualize Shmi in the kitchen, whipping up a favorite meal of hers, and she’d insist on helping. Both of them would sew together, making whatever garment they choose. All that wishful thinking lulled the girl to sleep, blissfully unaware of the  chaos that her own brother had wrought.

The next morning, t he sound of the speeder made Irele drop everything and run to the porch.

H er hopes from last night were shattered when she saw Anakin riding the speeder alone and all he brought with him was a fully swaddled body. Her felt her heart drop her stomach, and she watched in silence as Anakin carried the corpse and glowered at the Lars family and then to Padmé. He brushed past them, and then in the corner of his eye, he caught his little sister staring. Irele standing there stopped him in his tracks, then his glower softened into a look of shame—one that says he didn’t fulfill his promise to her. Just one day of meeting her, he lets go of a promise, and fails it.

He didn’t know what to say to her. She let him know that he didn’t need to, for she turned tail and ran back inside.

Irele helped in the preparation of the grave, but for the rest of the activity, she did not speak. She did not maintain eye contact with  _ anyone. _ The only interaction she’s ever had was with C3PO when she needed help on something, but not even he received a gaze from his young mistress.

S he dusted her hands together, and dismissed herself.

“I’m going inside. I want a drink.” she told to no one in particular, but her father and brothers acknowledged it.

She was in the kitchen, just through the small doorway past the dining table, helping herself to a glass of juice.  She sat in the seat nearest the door and just stared at the glass filled with a clear, apricot-colored liquid, tracing the rim of the glass with her finger, occasionally sipping it—for once, the sweet fruit juice tasted watery and bland, she finished the glass nonetheless, though reluctantly.

During her drinking, she had sensed Anakin walking into the workshop as she heard even the more careful of clinking of metal hitting the table. She remained silent, though he could sense her there, he just chose not to disturb her and rather make himself busy with fixing things. Next, she heard Padmé’s soft and kindly voice, a stark contrast to Anakin’s steely tone.

“Are you hungry?”

“The shifter broke,” he completely avoided her question.

Their conversation went on, with Anakin struggling to keep away from the grief that lingered in him. 

“But I couldn’t…” he trailed. “Why’d she have to die? Why couldn’t I save her? I know I could have!”

Then he tasted something sour, not realizing that he had bitten the inside of his cheek and it bled.  The walls listened and told everything to Irele, who’s still drawing invisible lines on her glass. Much later, she jolted when Anakin responded to Padmé’s fact with a loud frustration.

“Well, I should be!”

“I will be the most powerful Jedi ever!”

Irele continued to listen in, though Anakin’s behavior frightened her, and she had already come out of the dining room and hid behind the wall before the workshop’s archway.

“And I promise you: I will even learn to stop people from dying!”

Taken aback by the bold claim, she thought it impossible and dismissed it as wishful thinking clouded by unrealistic ambitiousness. Again, Irele heard more of Anakin’s roaring, this time blaming someone by the name of Obi-Wan of holding him back. She just continued to listen, hoping to find a way to empathize with her brother, but she found it difficult when he’s so flooded primarily of hatred and anger than sorrow and grief.

“Ani, what’s wrong?” Padmé cooed, attempting to break through his walls.

Anakin looked down on his hands, the very hands that held and swung the sword as he passed on his sentence to the Tuskens. They’re still red from the overly-tightened grip of his saber from last night. There were bruises too, little nicks that he didn’t notice during the genocide. The tears have dried, leaving glossy streaks on his defined cheekbones. His nostrils flared as he gasped for air, when the realization was slowly creeping up to him. He choked as he sighed.

“I killed them… I killed them all…” he repeated. Then swung to face Padmé. “They’re dead. Every single one of them…”

Padmé stared at him, dead frozen on where she stood. Her fingers unfeeling. Irele heard those very words from her own brother’s mouth and she could have sworn she felt her heart pause from beating. Her stomach tightened after every following word.

“And not just the men. But the women… and the children too!”

Irele’s knees nearly failed her as they lost their strength. Her heart felt heavy like an anchor. She silenced a gasp when she brought her hand to her mouth.

“They’re like animals. And I slaughtered them like animals! _I hate them!_ ”

Horrified of the unimaginable, completely unnecessary carnage her brother  had  wrought, she ran away from the workshop; the sound of her boots  lightly  scraping against the sand  and metal  as her heels sprang  Anakin’s ears pricked up, but he was too preoccupied with his grief that he dismissed it as nothing. Irele sprints  to her bedroom.  For a moment, it didn’t sound like her brother was  the one talking—she heard the words of a monster in the guise of a man.

Her hands trembled uncontrollably that she cannot even hold something with two fingers.  She finally allowed herself to melt to the floor,  and she cannot fathom how much violence and damage that Anakin left in his wake upon retrieving their mother. That night, Irele could not sleep; she waited for everyone to have fallen asleep and attempted to sneak out of the  house to visit Shmi’s headstone again.  They had buried  Shmi  already,  Irele  helped too, but Cliegg was too cautious of the nightfall that he insisted on setting the funeral tomorrow morning where it’s safer; of course, his son and stepdaughter agreed to it, Anakin didn’t have much of a choice. He stole a glimpse of Irele, who kept her vision forward; when she would turn to an angle where she’d have to face Anakin she kept her eyes on the ground, and would look in front when she’s gained distance from everyone else.

S he  and her own biological brother lack the comfort and warmth as siblings would share—especially in such a harrowing experience like losing a parent.

S he’d rather prefer the comfort of a stone.

Settling herself on the sand, her handwoven scarf—made by her mother, no less—wrapping her little body from her desert chill, she spoke to Shmi’s headstone.

“Hi, Mom…” she sadly started. Unable to find the next, proper words, she had a silent moment in front of the grave, and rocked back and forth for a bit. “He’s quite taller than I expected. Though, I should’ve seen it coming. He _is_ my _big_ brother, after all.” She huffed out an awkward chuckle.

She scribbled on the sand and then would start over by brushing it with a single sweep of her hand. This would repeat as she spoke openly to the gravestone.  For every passing moment, the tone of her voice would grow more somber and quieter, lacking the strength to let out another word than simply letting it go and cry.

“You know, he told me that he’d bring you home—but I never expected it to be in _this_ way.”

There was a bitter taste in her mouth, she clicked her tongue, “He  _ promised. _ ”

No answer, of course. Nevertheless, the girl continued. Already yearning for her mother’s embrace.

“Had I known… I already had that feeling…! I should’ve come with you. I may be little but… You never doubted me. Thanks to that, I knew—I _really_ knew—that I could fight them off, even for just a bit. If I did, _I_ would have protected you. Then they never would have taken you away from me. I would have bought us time to escape… I would have called Dad and Owen—or anyone—for help.”

She hiccuped, picking up what’s left of her failing confidence, “ _ I _ would have saved you _. _ ”

That wishful thinking then led her to finally releasing the tears she had been holding back all day.

“I miss you so much already, Mommy…”

Not even the warmth of her woven scarf blanketing her would be enough of a stand-in for Shmi’s hugs. It will never be. Being the only memory of her mother, it’s only a fragment of what Irele will remember of her.

She went to sleep quite late, understandably so.

* * *

The morning of the funeral, as promised, occurred. Cliegg gave his  eulogy first,  Irele had her turn on her eulogy  next —she had not much to say, for she had already said everything in private last night— though she cannot be moved from where she knelt, then Anakin got on his knees right next to her.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to save you, Mom, and I hope you can forgive me too, for breaking my promise to my sister.”

Irele craned her head  to her side but quickly withdrew it, facing the grave again.

T he funeral was interrupted when the white and blue astromech droid R2D2 came to bear news.  Padmé and Anakin prepared to retreat to the silver starship meters away from the homestead.

“Come with me,” Anakin whispered, he sounded demanding even in a low voice.

Irele attempted to harden her voice, to convey the conviction of her decision,  “ My place is here, Anakin. Like it or not, they’re  _ my _ family. I can’t leave them.”

A nakin’s head bobbed downwards, and then the unexpected happened—in an attempt to comfort one another, both Irele and Anakin planted their hands on each other’s shoulders; he gave her small shoulder a tight squeeze, hers was gentle and somewhat faltering as if the toll of Shmi’s death has only begun to sink into her.

“May the Force be with you.” bid Anakin.

She didn’t know what to say back and simply watched her brother sprint towards the ship.

The Cliegg family watched the starship blow a plume of smoke underneath its landing gear, hovered, and then darted through the sky before vanishing like star come morning light.

F or Irele, it’s back to her regular life here in Tatooine. Where she belongs.

Or so she thinks.


	7. No, There Is Another

_**19 BBY** _

Irele, her stepbrother Owen, and his now-wife Beru Lars live together in the same roof. After their father had died of natural causes, they placed him next to the grave of Shmi, as they deem it appropriate; they have taken full control of the homestead, though their ways didn’t change that much.

Now thirteen years old, Irele Skywalker had grown into the spitting image of Shmi Skywallker albeit younger. Medium length hair always secured as a ponytail with thin braids woven along the tail, warm and earthy-colored eyes, and a somber yet friendly smile.

The teenager had grown into an adventurous young spirit. Perhaps, if one is to see Shmi as a girl, she would have been the exact same as her daughter. Gaining friends in Anchorhead and even as far as Mos Eisley, though she had learned to steer clear of the latter town unless the need truly arises. Taking odd jobs in either of the towns, her hustler’s nature remained intact, she did not want to depend heavily on her brother and sister-in-law for monetary support—albeit Owen strongly disagrees, but to not avail.

“You’ve been out more often than staying at home!” chided Owen, who was now perhaps in his early thirties.

“Well, I _do_ need to work, don’t I, big brother?” she tapped his bulky arm as she strolled into the house.

She had just returned from her work in the shop that’s a hybrid of a speeder vendor and a servicing center. Whether she realizes it or not, she always finds herself tinkering with something, fixing them… like her real brother’s pastime as a child.

Irele had taken home a piece of a machine to her house, a personal project of sorts, completely unrelated to her work. She settled herself on the small worktable in her bedroom and immediately casts her lamp’s light on the working space. A metal rod put together with various, mismatching shafts and components held together by screws and sewn leather wrappings; it’s even a miracle that it worked, one way or another, it would serve better as a melee weapon than that of a Magnaguard’s electro-staff. Perhaps this staff is one of the many testaments of Irele’s skillfulness and resourcefulness, for growing up as a hustler and being exposed to machinery at an early age.

As she grew, she always donned a woven scarf made by Shmi. It has been a few years or so, and the heartache is very much fresh; every time she catches a glimpse of her headstone, with Cliegg’s next to it, the healing wound is ripped open once again—though she found comfort in confiding and speaking to both of them as if they were still alive, sitting with her and listening.

“Oh, circuitry should be here. Mom would have pointed that out too.” she mumbled to herself as she fiddled the wires with the sharp end of a thin screwdriver.

Come the hour of sunset, Irele had finished her chores after her handicraft. In the middle of her working, she felt a presence—it was sage and calming—she also heard the grunting of a single eopie. Curious, she and Beru went to the door. She was right about the eopie, carrying a single rider who held the reins with only one hand and is carrying something with the other. Irele thought the hooded rider to be her brother, as she remembered his own cloak, but the cowl revealed a slightly older man—his jaw was covered with a full, sandy-brown beard, his eyes were kind and yet she hinted the sadness in them, as if tragedy had befell him shortly before coming here.

It was Obi-Wan.

When the stranger coaxed the animal to kneel, he carefully hopped down, and supported his precious cargo with his free arm. He approaches the older girl and she willingly takes what he gave. The wide sleeve of his robe gave way to show an infant boy, perhaps a few weeks old. Beru and Irele’s eyes lit up, they spoke nothing to the stranger but they bid him with a short, polite bow.

Obi-Wan noticed the second girl, her olive skin and brown eyes gave him a memory of Anakin—the reminder sharply jabbed him into the recesses of his mind. The angry voices, the echoes of the sputtering lava, and the sorrowful howling of Anakin drummed behind his ears.

“Are you alright, sir?” Irele noticed.

“Oh, dear. I am fine, thank you,” he cleared his throat and tucked his arms inside his sleeves. “I am just not used to travel here in this place… but I will be.”

“I see.”

“My dear, may I know your name?”

“It is Irele…”

“Irele…?”

“Irele Skywalker-Lars.”

Obi-Wan slowly angled his head upwards, concealing his surprise as her name sinks into him.

_Another Skywalker?_

“Well, Irele,” he cleared his throat again. “May I ask a favor from you?”

“I’ll do my best to fulfill it.”

“I’m sure you can,” Obi-Wan’s gaze went to Beru carrying the baby who joined her husband, Owen, looking at the binary sunset. “Take care of him.”

“I don’t mean to sound uptight but… Who is he to me?”

“He’s your family. Your nephew. His name is Luke.”

Irele was a smart girl. She knew whose son the infant would have belonged to. A part of her wanted to ask where the father is—her brother—but perhaps it was for the best that she does not obligate the stranger to indulge her questions.

“Then I’ll do everything in my power to keep him safe.”

“I know, Irele,” Kenobi smiled, although a little sadly. “I know.”

“Sir, I’m sorry but I don’t know your name.”

“Ben… Ben Kenobi.”

Kenobi did not stay long in the premises of the homestead. He bowed to Irele, who returned the gesture, and returned to his steed. The eopie grunted as Kenobi hauled the reins to the right side, then spurred the tall quadruped to the distance, clouds of sand puffing under its hooves until the figure disappears as the twin suns set.

When Kenobi was gone from her sight, she turned to her brother and sister-in-law, along with their nephew—whom Owen would have probably called his son, given the chance. Irele was excited. She was already thinking of the things she and Luke would do—what games they’d play, what machines she’d teach him to fix, what kind of speeders could they hop on together.

He was the brother she never had.

From a certain point of view, it’s a wrong that she could right, while fulfilling her promise to Kenobi.

After Beru nursed the infant, she laid him down on their bed, Irele never left Luke’s side. She chuckled every time he would squirm, coo, and smile at her. Her heart fluttered and she fell in love with him. When Beru left the two children alone, Irele tasked herself to watch over him.

She moved her finger to his tiny hand and with his tiny, soft fingers he clasped her thumb with a grip as light as a feather. Irele’s heart melted once more.

And then she whispered as she kissed the tiniest hand that held hers, “I’ll keep you safe, Luke. I’ll always protect you.”


	8. On Her Trail

As she had promised to Ben Kenobi, Irele took care of Luke in every capacity. She was more of a big sister to him than an aunt, the boy barely felt like she was an aunt, insofar as insisting he just calls her “big sister” or refers to her as one when he’s asked about her relation to her. Irele eventually gave up counter-insisting her nephew, as it would confuse other people on how they’re truly related.

“Tell you what,” proposed Irele. “No need to call me Big Sis or Aunt—though the last one makes me feel old—just call me Irele, okay, Luke?”

“Okay… Irele!”

Satisfied that their little impasse has been taken care of, Irele tussled Luke’s head full of sandy blonde hair.

Sometimes, she would sense Ben Kenobi’s presence within the radius of their homestead. She does not see him, but she can feel the exact same sage, calming aura that he exuded when she first met him. Irele would think that he was also watching over Luke, albeit from afar.

As Luke grew, their relationship and close connection with one another was so strong, that it often worried Obi-Wan—but at the same time piqued his curiosity, with so many questions piling on top of the next— whenever he would approach the homestead to take a closer look on the boy and perhaps the teenage girl as well . However, the boy’s uncle, Owen, became stingier towards the middle-aged hermit  when he noticed old Ben interacting with the two children as if he was a visiting relative . 

I t confused Irele as to why her brother was so harsh towards this kindly man. Despite being thrown with words in a voice that Irele has never heard escape Owen’s mouth, she noticed that Kenobi remained calm— which she  perceived  somewhat  as defeat in every right.  He would not speak back, he would simply straighten the creases of his tattering robe, bow to Irele, and tussle both of their hairs before he departs. Never to be seen again—at least for Owen.

“Will we see him again, Irele?”

“I don’t know, Luke,” the girl sighed.

It was like reliving the day Kenobi came to their homestead to deliver Luke to them, except this time, the boy was standing by her side. Irele stole a glance at her little nephew and wondered:  J ust how important is Luke to the great, big galaxy  beyond this dust ball of a planet ?

* * *

_**16 BBY** _

I rele, now sixteen years of age, unshakably adventurous and— more often than not—stubborn, which was something Owen theorized she’s gotten from her brother, has grown to become more independent. Helping out her family as much as she can with the odd jobs she takes in Tatooine’s three main towns—Anchorhead and Mos Espa being her more frequent haunts.

She groups herself with people her age, and like her—they hop jobs when it’s convenient, or most of the time, safer. Currently, her clique is composed of two tan Twi’lek siblings—brother and sister, aged fourteen and fifteen respectively—a seventeen-year-old human female, and a human male who is perhaps the oldest of the group. The four youths work as animal wranglers. Their common target? Banthas, at least the undomesticated ones that still roam in the Dune Sea.

These enormous, woolly beasts have two fates once captured. One: butchered and then sold as raw meat. Second: a steed that one can rent in the absence of a speeder, or perhaps was too broke to afford one. Irele had no favorite choice, she always chose whichever gave the highest bid—only for her family to have something to put on the table.

With her busy work lifestyle, it’s almost impossible she would stop and remember Anakin, wondering what has he been doing ever since he left Tatooine on the day of Shmi’s funeral. As much as she hates it, she cannot shake the dark thoughts that intrude her mind, and there were times that she’s awakened by the nightmare of a dark figure donned in black and cloaked in silver fog; this figure always spoke nothing, but she vividly remembers the heavy breathing it exuded.

This horrendous figure appears in her nightmares, it would abruptly reach for her neck, but not touch it, and yet she always felt like—even in her dream state—her life is literally being choked out of her… and it would growl her name. And she would wake screaming for Shmi, as if  begging  to be rescued.

“MOM!!!” she shot up from her bed, ruffling her blankets, alarming Beru who scurried into the girl’s bedroom.

“Irele, hey, it’s okay, you were dreaming!” Beru hushed.

Her sister-in-law took her by the shoulders, gave it a quick and soothing rub to calm her down, and patiently waited for Irele to bring back her breathing’s rhythm.

“Is it the same one again?”

Irele swallowed and nodded.

“Oh, Irele,” Beru brushed up the stray hairs that fell to Irele’s face. “Do you want me to fix up something for you?”

“No, thank you, Beru. Sorry I woke you. Did I wake Luke too?”

Beru shook her head and asked Irele once more if she’s sure she doesn’t want any food or drink. Irele’s answer remained the same and that prompted the older woman to return to her bedroom.  That night, Irele struggled to go back to sleep.

_ Another long night _ , she thought.

* * *

Meanwhile,  in the rather cold solace of a mediation chamber,  sat  Darth Vader—the walking shell of once Anakin Skywalker— and remained stiller than a statue on where he sat. He cannot live denying that, sometimes, he is the man he was before his body became the black  encasement that he dons; and there are fragments that slither into his mind—voices, scenes, and even faces.

_ My place is here with them. _ Echoed Irele’s words from countless moons ago. Through the red-filmed sockets of his helmet, using his mind and whatever scraps of memories he can get by, a vision of her forms—he invented what she would have looked like from the last time he saw Irele, who was a small girl at that time. Now with six years past, surely, she must have grown.

Vader imagined Irele to be a little taller, perhaps with longer hair; but the one thing he cannot seem to change was the pair of hazel eyes—readable, expressive,  yet enigmatic and rather sad  all at the same time—contrasting emotions swimming and smudging his mental painting of his only known blood relative.

H e dared not to say her name.

At least not with him around.

A single beep interrupted him, signalling an incoming transmission. He recomposed himself before activating the communication podium in which he knelt as he waited for the holo to materialize. I n front of him was a holoprojection of a cloaked individual’s bust: the master he answers to, Darth Sidious.

T he holoprojection coats Darth Vader’s black shell a faint cyan light. He keeps his head bowed until Darth Sidious says otherwise.

“What is thy bidding, my Master?” said Vader, his words by rote every time he presents himself.

“I sense a vergence in the Force,” croaked the dark master.

Vader remained silent for a moment,  waiting for Sidious to continue.

“I… I have felt it too, my Lord.”

For the benefit of the doubt, Sidious feigned an indifferent expression despite brimming with curiosity.  As if he already knows that so does Vader has sensed it. A talent that he has  prided himself and  perfected over time until his senior  age .  Sidious only hummed in reply.

“Indeed, my Lord,” admitted Vader. “A remnant of Anakin Skywalker… lives. She is to be destroyed.”

Sidious angled his head ever so slightly that nobody would notice it, “She?”

“Yes, my Lord. If my memory serves me correctly, she is blood of his blood.”

“Then she is strong with the Force, no doubt,” Sidious hummed, his holoprojection fizzled in static and then returned to clarity, “The Force grants you insight, my apprentice. Seek her out. She must be delivered to our side… _or she will be destroyed_.”

V ader somewhat hesitated to say, “Yes, Master.” but say it he did, and Sidious’s holoprojection dissolved  into thin air .

In obeisance, Darth Vader returned to his meditation chamber;  now seated, he  had the luxury of privacy and removed his helmet which came in two parts—first was the cap, next was the mask itself where it’s laden with electronics.  Finally being able to breathe without the use of the gadget, he truly had time and his space to himself, to think.

He denies the fragments of his sister he had imagined. He almost did not want to do it—but he had no choice.


	9. Ensnared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you guys to know that I'll be in a short pause from publishing for a while because I'll have to drop my laptop to the shop to have my SSD fitted in because I don't know how to do it myself. It's gonna take a while, though I hope I get back to writing soon! So glad that you guys are enjoying this story, it really means a lot~! <3

“Hey, Irele, I got a job for us!” the Twi’lek boy, Frelik, panted as he supported himself on the arch of their door, as if he came sprinting from the town to their house in the salt flats.

“For who? Where? When!?” Irele bombarded back, and luckily Frelik answered all questions.

Irele looked over his shoulder, he had reached her house using the sand skimmer that all five of them worked together on. She told them to wait, hurried back inside, jumping to the floor from the first landing of the stairs to the rotunda and sprinted to her bedroom. She was all over the place—flashing from one side of the room to the other, swiping her pack with her tools and her scarf lying in different spots.

“I’m going out!” she announced in a voice loud enough for Owen and Beru to hear, wherever they were, and there was no time for either husband or wife to respond. They just heard the door whiz open and then shut.

Another wrangling job with her friends. It was a normal day, but it was something she enjoyed.

They’ve traveled about ten miles east of Mos Espa. The skimmer did its job, it resembles perhaps a smaller rendition of the complementary hovercraft that comes with a sail barge. Through his binoculars, Frelik spotted a cluster of brown speckles in the sand—a Bantha herd,  he had found. Their quarry.

“Drello, full speed ahead!” cried out the tan-skinned Twi’lek to the human male. The boy cranked the lever of the motor and they pulled forward.

They stopped their skimmer in a safe distance, atop a small hill that overlooks the Banthas gathered around a watering hole—a rare sight in this planet. After peering through the lens, Frelik handed the binoculars to no one in particular, Irele took it out of his hands.

“Those aren’t domesticated, alright,” she panned slightly to her right. “We can slide our way down there. We’ll have enough cover so they won’t be startled by us.”

Before they got themselves on the move, Irele scanned the area for any signs of Tusken Raiders. It was not uncommon to have a run-in with Tuskens who were also trying to wrangle up mounts for their numbers; should that happen, the most logical—and  _ only— _ move is to try your luck for another herd. A group of adult Tuskens versus a small band of children are in no good odds whatsoever.

“We’re clear. We’re the only ones here,” she reassured then returned the binoculars to Frelik. They sprinted back to the skimmer to retrieve their sleds and boards.

“I’m gonna ruin your win streak today, Irele!” prided Drello.

She clapped back after pulling her goggles down and smirked, “We’ll see about that!”

The children ran to the edge of the slope, the Twi’lek siblings shared a sled, Heeda—the other human female besides Irele—had her own sled that can only fit her. Golden blonde and sandy brown tinted the girl’s hair, and a bright-eyed face that proves her to be the youngest of the group, being only a year behind Irele.

A trail of sand plumed as they zipped down.  It was a collective skill for them to resist squealing and cheering in delight as they slide down a two- to three-mile long sand slide. Irele and Drello surfed with a quiet confidence in the middle of this friendly competition between the two of them; sweving and leaving snake-trails along the sand, as one overtook the other.

_ Show off! _ Said each teenager in their heads, referring to the other.

Only a few meters remain before the group lands on flat grounds. They hopped out of their rides and hurried behind the rocks.

“I thought you were gonna beat my streak, Drello?” jeered Irele.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever!” the boy chide, and the girl snickered under her breath.

Another cautionary look through the lens before they approach the herd and then they scrambled to their positions. For every job they took together, there was always a harmony amongst them, a testament to their three to four years of friendship forged by their odd job life.

As always, Irele was in charge of the actual wrangling—along with Drello and Frelik. The two other girls’ jobs were to tranquilize the animals should any of them escape or refuse to be mounted.

The three vaulted over the rocks, leaving Heeda and Venee—Frelik’s sister—behind. Producing ropes out of their packs as they prowled quietly in the Banthas’ blind spots. Given the beast’s width, the children are practically invisible if they stay directly behind them.  They became slower when they crept slower, the ropes primed into a lasso. In all their years in practice of this dangerous trade, they’ve mastered how to cleanly hoop the rope around the Bantha’s thick, spiraling horns.

A solid tug indicated that their ropes have rung around the base of the horns, they jumped onto the giants’ backs. Drello’s Bantha bucked its massive head, attempting to wriggle the rope off. Unfortunately, the boy had caught perhaps a more aggressive one than the rest of the herd; and to add insult to injury, his ropes have tangled around his leg and a few strands of the Bantha’s fur caught along with it.

“Drello, hold on!”

“Irele!” Drello yelped. “HELP!”

“Stay still!”

Seeing the trouble from their post, Heeda and Venee primed their dart guns.

“Wait for my signal, Heeda,” Venee warned. Fives seconds when they saw a clear shot, “Now!”

Two darts charged with a strong dosage of tranquilizer pierced their way through the Bantha’s curtain of fur and thick hide. The girth of the needle was thick enough to penetrate the animal’s skin. Drello’s Bantha seemed to have slowed down and the boy finally won some control over the beast.

“Troublemaker, are ya?! I’ll sell you to the first butcher I see in town!” grumbled a vexed Drello.

“Aw come on, don’t be like that!”

“What? He was the one who tried to buck me off while my leg’s caught in the rope,”

“Maybe he doesn’t like you,” Frelik suggested jokingly and the rest of the children giggled in agreement.

F or the Banthas who didn’t put up much of a fight and were tamer, Irele suggested strapping their skimmer to the beasts.

“Since they got ropes around their horns anyway, we can just tie the other end on the winch!” she suggested, and everyone loved the fun idea.

There were no objections from her friends. In fact, they were all in on it! Heeda and Venee wanted to the ride bareback on the Bantha while the other three would sit in the skimmer. All five teenagers giggled in excitement and delight as their idea is about to be put into play, until Irele’s smile vanished,  she flinched when she felt a needle prick the back of her shoulder .

“This is PG-957, target has been found and marked.” a sinister, muffled voice spoke through his comlink gauntlet.

No one noticed the tiny dart that had landed in her shoulder, but she easily swatted it off like it was some kind of debris. Little did she know that the tiny bullet that hit her packed such a punch.  In her easterly side, she saw two distant figures calling out to her. The first figure waved a piece of cloth to get her attention, the second cupped their mouth with their hands to amplify their voice.

_ Irele!! Come quick! _

“Hey, Irele, what’s wrong?” Frelik asked as he noticed his friend has suddenly gotten quiet.

“Smoke?” she muttered under her breath.

She squinted her eyes, sheltered her head with her scarf and confirmed that a pillar of smoke was in the distance as the Banthas pulled their skimmer.

“Do you see that?” she asked to no one in particular.

“See what?”

“That! That column of smoke over there!”

Frelik and Drello exchanged confused glances, and then back to Irele who had her back turned to them.

She squinted again, the two figures appeared to have gotten closer to where they are, and she could hear their voices.

_ IRELE, HURRY, IT’S YOUR FAMILY!! _

“My home!” she bursts.

“Whoa, hey, Irele, where are you going!?” Drello tried to stop her by grabbing her sleeve but she slipped away.

Irele literally jumped out of a moving skimmer, taking her things with her as well.

“Irele, hey! Come back!” Heeda screeched.

“Where is she going!?” Venee exclaimed.

“There’s nothing over there!” Frelik insisted to his friend as he—along with his companions—watched her sprint into the distant nothingness.

Irele sprinted as fast as she could, those two figures materialized into a pair of older human males. Her friends literally lost her in the desert just when they were about to make their way back to Mos Espa, where they client awaits.

“I can’t see her anymore! Frelik, can you!?”

The Twi’lek growled in frustration, “No, she went straight into the storm!”

“Is she crazy!?” his sister protested.

“We have to go after her!” Heedra insisted.

“We’re not equipped for a sandstorm, Heeda, we can’t turn around. We have to get back to town and get shelter!” Drello argued.

They have no choice. They continued in their original path but they wordlessly promised that they’d come back for her.

Irele followed the direction of the smoke, knowing that it’s coming from the homestead. The adrenaline made her forget the aching of her legs, exhausted from running. She cared not if her friends didn’t believe her, her vision narrowed to the direction of her house. She didn’t even notice that the two males she followed were out of her sight.

The tower of black smoke got bigger as she closed the distance further. At the top of her parched lungs, she cried out for her family.

“OWEN!! BERU!!” she screeched.

She caught sight of her homestead in flames—or so she thinks—the dirty white dome of her house was charred black, a gaping hole put into the front door, the machines in their rotunda had been blown up, and tattered rags scattered across the front of the house.

“No…” she gasped. “NO!! OWEN! BERU! WHERE ARE YOU!?”

She repeated these three names, but an answer did not come.

_Irele…_ a voice called to her.

“Owen!?”

_ Irele… do not fight it. _ It instructed her. It was a deep, ominous voice, and after the last word, a sharp robotic breath followed.

She recognizes that voice anywhere. She’s heard it in her nightmares, during the nights where she cannot sleep.

“No… No… Bring them back!” she cried.

S he did not know it was an illusion.  The sniper who had planted the needle into her flesh had followed the girl aimlessly going into an incoming sandstorm.

P oor Irele spun around in a panic, thinking that she was standing in the premises of her home, when in fact that she was standing in the first few inches of the storm. It was all a blur in her eyes, but she persisted looking for her family. The sniper, a trooper with a unique black armor, watched the poor girl spin until she got dizzy and weak.

M eanwhile, Darth Vader remained unmoving in his meditation chamber, dead center in the black, cold floor. He could hear Irele’s cries, her screaming of Owen and Beru’s names, and he could feel the hot, prickling wind that swats her face. The leather of his gloves squeaked as he tightened his already-closed fists.

_ Irele… _

“No…” she exhaled one last time. “Bring them… back…”

“Target incapacitated. Requesting transport.” The trooper reported and was answered by an incoming transport craft to retrieve the trooper and a knocked out Irele.

* * *

The storm had eventually died down, but the teenagers’ anxiety did not.

Once they’ve gotten rid of the Banthas, they instantly hopped back on their skimmer and retraced their steps to the location where they lost Irele.

T he sandstorm had erased her tracks, but they followed the direction where she aimlessly ran to.

Frelik heavily relied on his binoculars to find any sign of Irele. They had gotten far enough from the path they took when the Banthas pulled their skimmer. Drello may not be the most skilled wrangler, but he was a good tracker.

“We were here when she started talking funny, saying that she sees smoke when there’s nothing at all,” Drello pointed out the subtle indents of their skimmer and the Banthas’ hooves. He then angled his body to his easterly side, mimicking Irele’s position before she ran off. “And then she ran off there.”

“It’s strange,” Frelik added. “I heard her say the word ‘Home’ before she ran… but her house is in _that_ direction.”

“Maybe the heat got to her?” Heeda theorized.

Frelik shook his head, “We didn’t even stay out that long, Heeda.”

“Come on, talking will take us nowhere!” Venee grunted. “Drello, what can you take from here?”

“We go to _that_ direction,”

The skimmer hovered in a steady, leisurely pace; they were careful  not to miss anything. The wind picked up as they got farther, a minor aftermath of the sandstorm in the middle of its calm;  on his right, Frelik spotted something fluttering in the distance.

“Look! Drello turn us over there,”

Drello went straight ahead for that fluttering brown shape in the wind. Heeda picked it up and they all gathered around it.

“This is Irele’s scarf,” Venee mumbled pessimistically 

“Then she must be close!” Heeda’s hopefulness contrasted the Twi’lek girl’s mood.

With only her lost scarf as a clue, it took the group all day trying to find  her. The sunset beckoned them to stop. It never crossed their mind that they have to tell this to Owen and Beru, and they were scrambling over on what to tell them, how to say and explain it all,  and that they’ll witness firsthand the wrath of Owen Lars—as well as his grief.

R eluctant, they drove their skimmer to the Lars homestead, with only a piece of Irele to bring home to her family.  Up to now, not one of them have decided who will speak to Owen—neither do they have the courage to walk up to the front door.

They agreed that they go together, however, they hesitate to come an inch closer.

Eventually, Owen appeared out of the door.

“Oh, good thing you kids are back before dark.”

Silence from the children. Drello clutched onto Irele’s scarf so hard that it creased.

Owen’s eyes shifted left to right, counting in his mind, and it hit him.

“Where’s Irele?”

The teenagers flinched—shoulders flinched, sweaty fists clenched tighter, and knees were knocking.

O wen repeated the question until he spotted the scarf crumpled up into a ball.

“That’s Irele’s,” he pointed weakly at it. “Where is she!?”

“We… We’re sorry, but we lost her…”

“Lost her? Lost her!? Lost her how?!”

The raising of Owen’s voice attracted Beru—carrying Luke—to go outside. She finds Irele’s group being confronted by her husband.

“Owen, what’s going on here?”

“Irele didn’t come with them.”

“What?!” Beru gasped, her brown eyes widened.

Venee stepped forward, “We were on our way back, honest! But she started acting  strange . She looked distraught about your house, she said she spotted smoke coming from here but…”

“What smoke? We were perfectly fine here all day!” Owen interrupted.

The Twi’lek girl continued, alternately looking to her friends. They vouched her every word with nervous yet truthful nods.

“That’s the thing, sir. What’s worse is… she ran into an incoming sandstorm. That’s when we lost her.”

Heeda stepped in Venee’s side, “It’s true what Venee said. We tried to look for her when the storm passed, honest!  We just didn’t want to stay until dark because of the Tuskens. ”

“We’re sorry,” Frelik said sadly and with a misplaced guilt. “But this is what we can only find of her.”

Drello unfurled the scarf and held it in both hands, presenting it to Irele’s brother. The young boy stepped forward to  hand it over to the man who was hesitant to take it from his hands. Unable to accept that this was a rhyme to the fate of his late stepmother.

“No…” Owen’s rage melted into grief and distress. His heart wrenched. “Oh no…”

“Owen…”

Luke tugged the collar of Beru’s jacket and quietly asked, “Aunt Beru, where’s Irele?”

Unable to grasp how Irele’s friends had lost her, neither can Beru explain it to her nephew-in-law.

“Irele’s… Irele won’t be home for a while, dear.”

“Why?”

At a loss, Beru gave up looking for answers, there were no right ones after all.

“I don’t know, darling, I don’t know…”

As soon as Irele’s scarf came to Owen’s hands, he did not care anymore who would see him break down to tears. His knees melted, his back arched as he embraced a remnant of his dear sister—his remaining closest kin next to Luke—as he was fueled by the burning determination to find her.

Even if it meant he will have to repeat his father’s steps in finding Shmi all those years ago, then he would do the same for Irele.  But for this night, the dunes heard his  sobs  and buried them underneath each and every grain of sand.

T he next few days seemed desperate and hopeless. Owen had called up every men who were willing to come with him in search of Irele, her friends joined in as well.  By the day, their numbers thinned out—majority giving up on the search as they could not find any other relevant leads except the scarf and the girl’s last known position.

“Give it a rest, Owen! The girl’s probably lost, or worse, fallen into a Sarlacc pit while in a heatstroke daze.”

“DON’T YOU DARE SAY THAT ABOUT MY SISTER!” Owen swung with a finger pointed at the man who claimed such an assumption.

K nowing that this was not worth his time and energy anymore, the scout gave up and turned tail. Owen originally rounded up at least fifty men scattered across the outskirts of the major towns, even as far as the Dune Sea; though little by little, they all gave up on the search as well as Owen himself. Some with a heart apologized and wished him luck in finding the teenage girl.

“Oh, Irele…” Owen huffed, exhausted. “Where are you…?”

He was forced to stop the search just a few hours before sunset. He sent her friends home earlier. Upon returning to the house, he watched as Beru quickly walked out of the kitchen with a hopeful face—only for that hopefulness to fade away when she saw that her husband arrived alone.

She awkwardly dismissed herself and returned to the kitchen. Leaving Luke playing with a toy  cruiser and  shuttle on the table. Owen sat across him, the boy continued playing and reentered the little world he’s created with his ships , accompanied by little scaled figurines carved out of painted wood .

A nd from that day forward, something in Owen changed. In the following years, he would have grown old and sterner especially towards the remaining youngest family member—his nephew. Never mind if Luke would resent Owen’s ways in disciplining him or keeping him grounded, if it meant keeping him safe and preventing the same fate to happen to the boy, then he would do it.

He cannot afford to lose another part of his family.


	10. His Ward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I’m really sorry for taking so long to post! I’m going through something and it’s taking quite a toll on my emotional health. I can’t brush it off that easily of course, but I’m trying my best to not let it devour me and ruin my routines and habits entirely. I still try to write, but my breakdown episodes are taking too much of my time during the day and I hate for just deciding to sleeping it off—though, it actually helps, plus a good cry. I’m sorry for rambling like this, but I’m not in slump just yet and I hope this situation of mine isn’t gonna drag me into one. I hope you all have been liking the story, if you do, I super duper appreciate it as always!

_You are weak…_

_Incompetent…_

_Incapable of taking care of a child, what more if two?_

An ominous, heavy voice burdened these words to Owen. The man felt paralyzed in his own bed. His knees and elbows locked in place, his calves and arms frozen stiff, and his lungs tight and narrow. He had hoped Beru would be woken up by his squirming and help him out of whatever is happening to him right now.

But his wife was nowhere to be found.

Owen found himself surrounded in darkness, standing in the middle of nowhere and nothing. He feared if this was purgatory. After he had spun a considerable amount of times just to orient himself on where he is and what is going on, the voice took shape—a towering figure armored in black, with his wife and nephew suspended between them while they’re on their knees. Owen could feel his heart sink to the soles of his feet and his legs were failing to hold his balance.

_And for that, you shall pay the price of your negligence!_

The sharp, ragged ignition of a lightsaber brandished through Beru’s breast and she fell right then and there. There was almost no death cry. Beru was mute as she jolted from the final sensation through her body and slumped to the dust, without waiting for the woman’s corpse to touch the soil, the beam swung sideways to poor, little Luke.

The boy had a death cry, albeit short it was haunting and gut-wrenching, and his cry faded out as he fell to the floor next to his aunt. Owen, in that dream state, was frozen in place. He wasn’t bound to the floor or anything, he was simply incapable of moving. The only thing he can do is watch—as penance imposed by the tall, monstrous figure brandishing a red sword made of light.

“NO!”

Owen sat up screaming and awake. He’s quite lucky they have no neighbors, but the creatures in the desert might have heard him, maybe even old Ben Kenobi in the off-chance that he’s out in the dunes at night.

“Owen!” Beru gasped, woken up by her husband’s nightmarish episode. “Owen, it was a dream!”

“Oh gods!” her husband gasped, clutching his chest so tight that his shirt crumpled. When he realized that it was indeed a dream, he cupped Beru at the neck so tightly that he almost choked her. “Oh, Beru!”

“Owen, dear…” she sighed, unable to comfort her husband.

It’s been only two nights since Irele disappeared, and the toll has already taken her brother.

* * *

Irele was brought immediately to the command ship when the transport boarded its hangar. She was thrown into a cell unconscious; hours have passed when she came to. Her body was disturbed by the sudden change in temperature, she was more conditioned for warm, temperate climates. The inorganic, air-conditioned room was an unpleasant surprise for her nerves.

She patted herself in different parts of her body to see where it hurts. Nothing. She was completely unscathed—except, of course, the few light scrapes and bruises she got during her hallucinogenic episode though they were nothing she can’t brush off and heal from.

“Where am I?” she asked to no one in particular.

She looked at the door and saw that it was a solid blast door; the small rectangular window that could only frame the eyes was sealed shut, there was no way of telling if there was someone on the other side of the door.

“Hello?” she knocked on the door, it was worth a shot, she thought.

She said it again, the knocking had gotten louder.

Irritated, the guard outside the cell banged the door with the pommel of his blaster.

“Quiet!” his voice was muffled through the helmet, but the manner of his speaking was sharp and strict. The sudden loud clang startled Irele, forcing her back to the slab that stuck out of the wall that’s meant to be her bed.

She stands up again to walk back to the door, to get some answers from the guard.

“Where am I?” she slapped the door, prompting for answer. “Hey!”

“I SAID SHUT UP!”

“Ugh, you know you’re making the noise twice as worse,” a second guard groaned, though more indifferent towards the prisoner, as well as his companion.

“The little brat won’t shut up.”

“She’ll shut up when Lord Vader comes in,”

“Can’t expect him to come any sooner, can I?”

“Maybe you can turn up in his chambers and tell him yourself,” the second guard chuckled, quite amused by his own snark.

“Yeah, whatever,” the first guard said dryly, completely feeling the opposite.

Overhearing their small talk, Irele picked up the name and tried to familiarize herself with it. _Lord Vader?_ She pondered. But she’s never heard of it. Understandably so, even upon the establishment of the Empire, Tatooine remained uninvolved with the affairs of the now Galactic Empire—as it was in the prime days of the Republic.

Even if the name never rung a bell, she found herself shivering—both by the cold and by the imminent confrontation of this unknown entity that she already fears.

A uniformed crew marches to Darth Vader’s personal chambers. From Vader’s end, the door to his room opened and the cadet let himself in after the Sith Lord allowed him.

“My Lord, the prisoner has come to,”

“Very well. Leave her to me, I’ll deal with her myself,”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

“Go.”

The cadet bowed and his lungs loosened. He had puffed up his chest for a minute or two after leaving the chambers. Darth Vader stood up from his shell and strode regally out of his room; it was not an uncommon sight to find the lord of this ship wandering alone without an escort or two.

Vader made way to the prison block, where the teenage captive would be doing nothing except sit and wait. He isn’t expecting her to recognize him, though he almost wished his did—at least the human part of his being. The door shot open; Irele—seated at the very center of the slab—threw her back flat against the wall. She hasn’t even gotten a good view of Vader and she was already _terrified._ He had to bow his head before presenting the hulk of his height in his cybernetic body.

Irele’s breathing skipped a rhythm. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him, she has never seen anything quite like him. The sound of his breathing made her pupils dilate.

 _I see him in my nightmares…_ Irele thought.

Her heart dropped to her stomach when she heard him speak.

“I have been looking for you, child.”

Vader could clearly see that Irele was just utterly petrified. She may not realize it, but their gazes lock—even with the two bulbous globes where his eyes should be obstruct his own—he could clearly see his little sister: his truest next-of-kin. He saw the way her hands latched onto whatever surface it could grab on the metal wall, and goodness did they shake! He remained indifferent—he tried to be.

“W-Where am I?” the poor, shaken girl shuddered.

“That is of no importance.”

“But I’m so far away from home…!” she couldn’t bring herself to raise her voice, only to speak up a bit. “What did I do wrong?”

The dark lord answered none of those questions, but perhaps he could answer the next one.

“Who are you?”

“Your new master. You shall be my ward.”

To Irele, that declaration didn’t sound as ominous as she had hoped; yet, her heart sank when she realized that she’s now bound to this dark lord. In whatever word he paints it to be, she is his prisoner, and she will be here for a very long time. Another pill that’s hard to swallow for her is that she must remain tight-lipped about her family’s whereabouts for the rest of the time she’s here—which is probably forever.

Not realizing she didn’t actively react to this, Darth Vader had been suspended in silence for a few moments.

“You seem unsettled.”

“I don’t know this place. I don’t know you really are, either. The only thing I want right now is to go home. My friends might be looking for me.” She bit her tongue after that last one, keeping mum about her family if ever this lord will hunt them down after the slightest shortcoming.

“ _This_ is your new home now… Irele.”

Irele could not accept it. She looked around: nothing in this place is nowhere near to be called home! This is a prison that Vader is desperately convincing the girl to see it as one, to accept it as one.

“It would be wise if you do not object, child. My leniency could only go so far.”

Behind him, the door opened to let inside a black orb with silver apparatus, it hovered into the cell while its internals hummed. The floating globe’s most prominent appendage would be the syringe protruding from its left-hand side; Irele spotted a drop of liquid dangling at the edge of the needle’s tip.

Again, she pressed herself harder against the wall as soon as she caught the glint of the needle under the light of her cell. She tried to scream, but even opening her mouth felt like a laborious feat, so all she could do was taking deep yet short breaths as the droid approached her. The arm with the syringe extended to angle itself better. Vader watched from the far corner of the cell—incapable of helping his sister—and imposing a penance of sorts on himself, to torment him over the fact that even if he had all the means to do so, he is constrained from any sort of humane thing to do to at least ease off the pain from Irele.

The prick of the needle was slow, long, and agonizing. Vader could see Irele’s right arm tensing, shaking uncontrollably, and her hand violently jerking sideways. He saw the liquid leave the syringe and enter Irele’s bloodstreams, but the droid made it sure that it was equally tormenting. Irele tried to fight but the substance had temporarily paralyzed her. She threw her head back, slamming against the wall, and with a great effort she lolled her head to Vader…

A tear escaped from the corner of her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes; her mouth trembled opened to release a grunt that should have been a cry of pain. The look in her face was a plead for mercy or of help—even by a miracle. She looked to the one and only person who could stop this, and there he watched within the blackness of the room, her cry was replied with nothing but Vader’s rhythmic breathing as he stood there and watched. Even with a helmet on, if one could see closely, he was in an irredeemable state of regret for remaining a bystander in Irele’s moment of suffering.

 _She must learn to live with this… Otherwise, she may not live at all._ He reinforced himself, albeit quite a twisted mindset.

The interrogation droid had pulled out the injection. The pinprick drew blood and Irele only had the clothes on her back to clog the bleeding. Weakened by the shock and pain, she melted to the slab and fell unconscious.

He turns to leave the cell, the droid followed, and quickly sealed Irele in. The guards straightened their backs at the sight of their master and awaited his orders. With a raised finger, he commanded them to ready a personal bunker filled with all necessities like new clothes for Irele.

“By the time the substance wears off, see to it that she is brought to the medical bay immediately. I want her in optimum shape if she is to be subjected to training in due time.”

 _Training?_ The uniformed men thought.

No questions were actually asked, for Vader strode away back to his chambers, and left the guards to do what is asked of them.


	11. A Home Away

The maintenance droids only needed an hour to prepare a dorm for Irele within the command ship. Not that she would need a personal room in every ship she boards, but it would help if she did in the near future. The human guards did not need to wait for Irele to come to, they barged into the cell, pulled the poor girl by the arm to stand her up and then drag her out of the prison block while she could barely use her own two feet.

Irele’s eyes have not adjusted to the changing tones and gradients of lights of each part of the ship she passes through. She thought she said the question “Where are we going?” when the guards only heard an incoherent groaning at the throat.

The way from the prison block to her new chambers was a ten-minute walk, if one marched faster it would have been lesser. Upon reaching their destination, only one escorted her into her room and sat her down on the bed—to which she immediately fell limp and ended up lying down instead. While she was out cold, a nanny droid entered her bedroom to tend to whatever it can in the quarters; it took its time, in fact, until the girl came to. The droid’s sensors picked up the spike from Irele’s heart rate from slow to normal, it briskly turned around.

“It is fortunate that you’ve come to, milady. The serum from the probe has completely worn off. Should you feel slight nausea, do not be alarmed for it is normal as well. I can administer some painkillers to you with your choice of pill or syrup.”

The droid is programmed to speak in Basic and had a rather lulling, female voice—perhaps the most appropriate if you are to manufacture and program a droid for nursing.

“Milady? What are you talking about? Who are you? _What_ are you?”

“You are here as a ward under the strict order of Master Vader. I am HY-L33, Nanny Droid,” it brought its head into a bow, “At your service, Milady Irele.”

“Why call me Milady when I’m kept hostage here?” she sits up and examines the room.

“Oh, you are mistaken, Milady. You are Lord Vader’s ward,” HY-L33 corrects. “And I have been tasked to take care of your basic needs and whims, if need be.”

“What I need is to go home! I don’t like being holed up in anywhere!”

The nurse droid lowered its head slowly, it stayed like so for a moment; with a rather sympathetic voice, HY-L33 responds, “I’m sorry, but I am incapable of fulfilling that whim, milady. I would suggest that you make yourself comfortable in this _new_ one.”

Irele sighed, knowing that she’s talking to a wall here. She gave herself time to calm down and breathe. She passed her hands across her face and sighed.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be lashing out to you…” Irele inhaled. “What are you called again?”

“HY-L33, madam.”

Irele quietly parroted the name, “That’s a mouthful. How about I call you Haylee, is that alright?”

“If it proves to be more convenient for you, milady. Although personally, I do adore the name you’ve given me.”

Irele hummed as she managed a small smile, she hinted the chirp from the droid’s voice, relieved that she found some company out of the droid in this inorganic, cold room, she walked around to get a better feel of it now that the serum from the interrogation droid has worn off.

“Say, Haylee, do you know where we are?”

“We are aboard the command ship _Anathema_ , the ship is within the Ulgoro system, and we are passing by the orbit of the planet Yelen.”

“How far are we from Tatooine?”

Haylee ran a quick scan from her processors, “We are approximately twenty-five parsecs away from the said Outer Rim planet.”

Irele breathed deeply, her heart sank, “That’s so far away…”

The droid’s photoreceptors picked up Irele’s increased heart rate and temperature. The girl was manifesting signs of anxiety: shivering hands, failing voice, and cold sweat.

“You are suffering from homesickness. Unfortunately, I do not have the appropriate medication for that, milady. Neither can I administer any medication for you. This is absolutely natural as you have been extracted from your real home to your current location.”

Irele took the deepest sigh and made a mantra.

_Don’t lash out on the droid, you just screamed at it ten minutes ago._

She told this to herself mentally until she’s calmed herself down.

“Yeah, I am homesick. I left my family behind and…” she trailed off, realizing that the last people she was with were her friends. “My friends. They must be all worried sick about me.”

“You will be well taken care of here, Lady Irele.”

“Heh,” the girl huffed. “No need to be so formal. Just call me Irele.”

“As you wish… Mistress Irele.”

“Droids, gotta love ‘em _…_ ” she mumbled very quietly, knowing how acute droids’ hearing could be—depending on the model, that is.

* * *

Fortunately enough, Irele is indeed being taken care of.

Ever since she was moved to her own chambers in the Star Destroyer _Anathema_ , she was thoroughly pampered—more or less—than anyone else in the ship, aside from Darth Vader. Never has she ever been well-fed in sixteen years! The serving portions were generous and they were quite tasty, but she had her moments where the food somewhat reminded her of home.

A uniformed officer enters Vader’s quarters to report of Irele’s adjustment to the new environment. Most of the officers feared that they’re speaking like a broken record, reporting the same thing to Vader every week—they had probably imagined it vexed him to be hearing the same thing over and over; it did them little comfort when adding their own personal observations of her such as asking for seconds with her food and interacting with the nanny droid, since she’s still shy and cautious from everyone else on board.Additionally, she was not yet allowed to wander off alone beyond her room. So, by all means, she is pretty much a hostage still—a rather pampered one, at the very least.

“Has she stopped her erratic behavior?”

“Fortunately so, Lord Vader, she has. Perhaps about a week and a half since her extraction, she had become somewhat… docile.”

Vader paused. He had presumed it was the effects of the interrogator droid’s syringe, but surely during the time the nanny droid was tending to the girl, the substance has flushed out since. Realizing that he truly knows nothing of what kind of person Irele is—compared from his earliest reference of her—he sighs with a quiet frustration under his mask.

“Very well. We are right on schedule. Carry on, captain.”

“Yes sir,” the captain bowed and dismissed himself militarily. His true posture showed when he rejoined his companion who had been waiting for him by the door. He hissed, “I didn’t conscript myself to the Imperial Fleet to be a babysitter!”

“Be more frustrated when Lord Vader _does_ appoint you the official babysitter of the girl.”

“She’s quite a handful, don’t you think so?”

“Temperamental, to say the least,”

Only Vader and the droid, HY-L33, know what’s in store for Irele. Very soon, the plans for her life under the Empire’s wing—unknowingly under her brother’s care, or the walking shell of him perhaps—will be put into play.

For many weeks, HY-L33 patiently watched over Irele—especially in the medical aspect—and a mandate was programmed into her that once a diagnosis of the teenager would show optimum by the end of three weeks since her extraction from Tatooine, Irele would be considered physically eligible and be subjected to training. Eventually, HY-L33 was the only companion she has ever had in this ship since day one; so in exchange for medical knowledge and advice from HY-L33, Irele repays it with stories from her homeworld of Tatooine, but knowing that the droid is under Imperial property, she was cautious of what she ought to say, and rather told her adventures she had done on her own or with a friend instead of her family life.

“It seems as though your rigorous lifestyle has contributed to your increased stamina throughout your developmental stage.” HYL-33 commented once while listening to Irele recall one job she did where she would deliver goods door-to-door across the town of Mos Espa.

“Yeah well, I had to work. Because if I didn’t work, that just meant, I’ll be sleeping hungry—or if I’m lucky, with a half-full stomach.”

HY-L33, being the medical nanny droid that she is, went on to lecture Irele that it was ill-advised to sleep on an empty stomach for it will cause ulcers. The girl politely listened and heeded the advice, until she calmed down the droid that she had been fine for the rest of the time she was growing up.

She had only been staying for a week and a half. HY-L33’s sensors indicate a lesser trace of homesickness and anxiety within Irele, her body mass index has not changed drastically at all since her food intake was increased rather than imposing an eating strike—a few of HY-L33’s references cite that most human teenagers are more rebellious, especially when it comes to being fed after being thrown into a stressful situation. However, this was not the case with Irele, which made the nurse droid’s circuits cooler.

Eventually, the three weeks were over. Irele noticed HY-L33 seeming to be in full preparation. She did not mind this, but kept a close eye, until she could find the right timing to ask. After lunch, Irele went to the bath by rote, and quickly dressed herself in a dark gray shirt, black pants, and low boots.

Irele could truly sense something different in their routine.

“Haylee?”

“Yes, Miss Irele?”

“Is there something new added into the routine?”

“Yes, Miss Irele, we are about to perform a full health assessment on you. Please follow me and I will escort you to the medical ward.”

This was the first time Irele had been outside of her bedroom. For three weeks, she had been holed up in that metal room with no one and nothing else but HY-L33—to which she had grown fond of anyway—and then she finally comes out for a medical check-up.

Along the way, she could not look into the eyes of the crew, although she perfectly blended in with her gray and black clothes. She was nervous and afraid of what they’re thinking of her—because she felt like she _knows_ what they’re saying about her, it’s a feeling that she can’t explain but it still manifests in her. Eager to avoid the stares and attention, Irele walked directly behind HY-L33 until they got to the said medical ward.

When they got there, the interior of the medical ward was a little bit brighter than most of the rooms in the ship. The walls were still metal, of course, but it was a cooler shade of gray which somewhat eased the people who are admitted and confined here—instead of the intimidating dark grays and blacks on other parts of the ship. At the center of operations was a 2-1B surgical droid stationed by a medical bed; it was approached by HY-L33 and Irele, when the droid’s photoreceptors saw the girl’s face, a deep male tone started speaking in a monotonous, continuous fashion.

“Irele Skywalker, human female, age is sixteen standard years, height stands at five feet and three inches…”

“Okay, okay, I think we got enough of my vitals already!” Irele interrupted.

“Were you briefed of your purpose here?”

Irele made a side-eyed glance at HY-L33, who didn’t move at all, “I was only told I was getting a check-up.”

“Correct.”

The surgical droid cleared out what HY-L33 failed to when they were still in the bedroom. It started with the physical examination—taking down her age, height, and weight, until it pored into analyzing the fluid levels and vitals of her organs to see if they were normal. It was all strange for little Irele, but she held up and did as she was told. She wasn’t getting hurt by the droids anyway, save the one pinprick that they had to do in order to conduct a blood test.

From Vader’s chamber, he was receiving real-time transmissions of the medical ward’s database. Whatever diagnosis the droids encode into the database under Irele’s profile, Vader saw it all firsthand—every revision, every new entry, every number.

_Midichlorian count: 20,598._

Seeing this number and then recalling his impression on Irele baffled Darth Vader.

This child has lived sixteen years in a backwater planet, with a high midichlorian count… and yet her sensitivity is _dormant._


End file.
